Dusk
by Known Unknowns
Summary: Ten years. So much can change in ten years. It's 2023, and Tony isn't the man he once was. However, when someone from his past returns, will things finally change for the better? Will he ever be able to get his family back? Team case fic. Hints of Tiva.
1. Chapter 1

_**Dusk**_

**Chapter 1**

_A/N: So this is an idea I've been toying with for awhile, and I thought for my first NCIS story (more than just a tag series or a oneshot) I wanted to go with a plot bunny that had been bugging me for a long time. Just warning anyone who hops on for the ride, this is depressing, angsty, and bleak. Includes major character death. Read on with caution._

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS, and make no profit from this story._

* * *

**_"I'm a stitch away from making it,_**

**_And a scar away from falling apart, apart,_**

**_Blood cells pixelate, and eyes dilate,_**

**_And the full moon pills got me out on the street at night." -The (After) Life of the Party, Fall Out Boy_**

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 01:49 - NCIS Director's Office, Naval Yard, Washington DC_

Tony's eyes raked over the Navy Yard and the Potomac, gaining an almost undetectable sense of peace from the familiar surroundings. He had met with the SecNav earlier, so he had spent most of the day on the hill instead of in his office, where he felt most comfortable.

However, today's meeting had been crucial. Securing additional funding for NCIS was always a trick. He had thought that Vance being an ex-agent and director would help, but the old bastard was just as stingy with funding as Jarvis had been.

His cell phone rang on his desk, and he quickly checked the caller ID, not intending to pick up unless it was important. As soon as he'd checked his inbox and gathered his things, he planned on heading home. Of course, the only thing waiting for him there was his lonely twin bed, but he needed a few hours of sleep if he wanted to be able to function the next day.

He lifted an eyebrow at the name. _Abby Sciuto_.

He contemplated not picking up, but even now, after so much had happened, he still couldn't bring himself to say even a silent 'no' to the former forensic scientist.

"DiNozzo," he answered, settling his head on the open palm of his hand.

"Hey, Tony," Abby said, not sounding the least bit lethargic in spite of the late hour. He knew that Abby wasn't really all that into sleeping - with her hyperactive intelligence and energetic nature, it didn't come as a surprise.

"Hey, Abby," he replied, the voice making him feel a little warmer than the cold and hollow emptiness he was used to.

"We haven't talked in months, you know," she pointed out quietly, getting straight to the point. He sighed heavily, knowing where this conversation was going. It was true, they hadn't talked since early October.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Abby - they had known each other for going on twenty two years now, and he cared deeply for her, but reminders of the past were not things that he wanted to actively seek out. Abby was a member of his family. Every conversation with her, while making him feel just a little less alone, still served as a poignant and painful reminder of all that had changed and all that he had lost.

"I'm sorry, Abs, I've just been... you know, busy. Director stuff and all that. Apparently, Vance did more than just sit up here and stare at the pretty pictures on the wall," he said, trying to keep the sarcasm in his voice light. He didn't joke much anymore. Most of it just came out as either a hint too dark or bitter.

Well, he was a fairly bitter man, so maybe that fit.

"I know," she responded, her voice seeming to have dropped into a melancholy tone that still hurt him to hear, even though it had become more and more frequent over the years. "I just wanted to call and see how you are."

"I'm fine." It came out of his mouth before he even fully processed what she had said. That was always his immediate response. He was _always_ fine. No one needed to know anything below the professional surface of _fine_. Not even Abby, although he knew that she could still see straight through his facade. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. I mean, as okay as ever," she said, though her voice told him otherwise. It always did.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" Tony asked, the edges of worry creeping into his chest.

"Would you tell me?" she snapped, uncharacteristically angry. "Wait, no, let me answer. You wouldn't, because you're always _fine_. You're always okay, even though you're not. You haven't been _fine_ in eight years," she paused, her voice shaking slightly. "None of us have."

"Can't we go one conversation without -" he began, but she quickly interrupted him.

"No, we can't! Because it's been eight friggin' years and you still haven't talked about it to any of us! I'm supposed to be the emotionally fragile one, not you. Are you so close to the edge that if someone even mentions Gibbs or Ziva you completely shut down?" her ranting was oddly comforting, because he hadn't heard it in a long time. She didn't go off on wild and mildly nonsensical tangents anymore.

"There's nothing to talk about. There never was anything to talk about." He could feel himself shutting down just as Abby had described. The heart that he barely had to try to hide nowadays, because he was fairly sure it'd been dead for a long time, quickly put up iron walls to protect itself.

"How can you say that?" was her whispered response. "Tony, how can you even say that!?" she repeated.

"Gibbs is dead!" he shouted, losing the composure he had tried so hard to keep. "Gibbs is _dead_, Abby! Getting all heart to heart isn't going to change that. Gibbs and Ducky are dead, Ziva's gone, and that's how it is. I don't talk about it because I don't want to think about it. It's been eight years. It's done and over with." He bit down hard on the inside of his lip, trying hard to control his emotions.

"You never moved on. You changed," she accused, driving a knife into his heart. _I've changed? That's the understatement of the goddamn decade._

"Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? You've changed more than I have," he retorted, tapping his knuckles on the top of his maple desk. It was a really nice desk. His father had shipped it to him after he had been promoted.

"How couldn't I?" she asked, and he heard a sob threatening to break forth from her. "Gibbs was like-"

"A father? Yeah, I'm familiar with the feeling, but I've moved on, Abs. You should try to do the same," he advised, letting the lie leave his mouth with the kind of ease that scared the crap out of him.

"Go to hell."

"Goodnight, Abby." He hung up without another word, immediately feeling guilty for saying what he did. _Nice job, DiNozzo. You fucked up again. You alienated one of the only people you have left in your life after ignoring her for months._

He slid open the bottom drawer of his too-expensive, too-nice desk, and picked out a small, orange bottle. Anthony DiNozzo, hydrocodone, forty five tablets. A month's supply. He picked up the prescription two weeks ago. There were four pills left.

His scar pained him every minute of every day, but it wasn't enough to warrant the strong pain medication. Of course, he was the only one who knew that. The numb feeling that the pills blessed him with was one of the only things that kept him from going off the edge.

He'd used up his supply way too fast this time. If he took the four that were left now, he would be detoxing by this time tomorrow. If he spaced them out, he could stave off the inevitable detox for a few more days, at least. He knew from experience that it wasn't a fun time.

_I can take these now, hunt down some street Oxy or something tomorrow. It's the only option._

Without another thought, he tossed the four pills in his mouth, dry swallowing them. He closed his eyes for a long moment. His home suddenly seemed very far away, too far away. _When was the last time I even had a home?_

He sighed, rubbing the scar tissue that made up the left side of his face and wincing. A few minutes, and hopefully he'd be hazy enough to fall asleep here at his desk. It would only worsen the crick in his neck, but right now, he honestly didn't give a shit.

He hated himself for the fact that he almost couldn't make himself care about anything anymore. He was just a robot going through the motions. It had been like that since he lost his family.

Gibbs would have wanted them to stick together, to take care of each other. He wouldn't have wanted _this_. If he saw him now, hiding behind the haze of narcotics, not speaking to McGee or Abby, he'd head smack him so hard he would probably forget his own name.

McGee works for the FBI now, Fornell snatched him up quickly after Gibbs' death. Now he was the senior agent at the FBI field office in Denver. He hadn't seen McGee since he moved to Colorado four years prior. They'd exchanged Christmas cards, talked once or twice on the phone. They hadn't spoken in about a year and a half. McGee had moved on. Hell, he'd heard through the grapevine that he was getting married. Beautiful girl named Scottie, if the rumors were right. He hoped they were. McGee deserved to be happy.

Abby was a criminology professor at Georgetown, now. The Goth look had finally faded, though she still wore her hair in braids and ponytails, and she didn't bother to cover up her tattoos. Abby had been damaged by the events of that horrible night badly, and was still in therapy. Maybe he should have tried therapy, too.

The only one left at NCIS was him... and Palmer, who'd become the chief ME since Ducky's passing nine years ago. After Gibbs' death, Tony had been named senior field agent. With Ziva leaving the night of Gibbs' funeral, only he and McGee were left. Tony pulled away from McGee fast, trying so hard not to face any real emotion. Fornell appeared unannounced at the Navy Yard one month later. Two weeks following that, he received a mumbled apology and McGee's resignation on his desk.

He didn't blame him for leaving, he would have left too, if he'd had the option. He could never leave NCIS, it wasn't even a choice for him. He had to take over where Gibbs had left off, carry on his pseudo father's legacy, as it were. It's what was expected of him.

He had his own team for seven years. Agents Rockwell, Feller, and Logan were his charges. Trevor Rockwell was transferred from Norfolk to be the new senior field agent for his team, and Harry Feller was sent up from cyber crimes to be the new McGee. Sarah Logan was the female addition to the team, Ziva's replacement.

He couldn't really claim to be particularly close to any of them, now or then. They were his team, he cared about them as much as he could, and he knew Rockwell was more than capable of taking over now that he had been promoted to director, but he had never had a non-work related conversation with any of them. His first team would describe him as talkative, annoying, immature, but charming in his own way.

His second team would describe him as a humorless hard ass, brave and daring almost to a fault, and not one for casual conversation.

Everybody changes.

Being director was not a fun job by any means, but with his age and his hidden emotional and mental instability, he privately didn't think he was safe for the field anymore, though he would never tell anyone else about this.

Over the past few years, his temper and disposition had become extremely erratic. Sometimes he'd fly into private rages, chucking his possessions against the walls and screaming until his damaged lungs burned like fire.

Sometimes he'd lay in bed all day (if he had the day off - which was rare) and simply lay there, staring at the ceiling or wall, trying to come up with a reason to get out of bed. Most of the time, he couldn't find one.

Maybe he was just losing it, maybe all the head injuries over the years were finally adding up. Hell, maybe he was just taking too many pills. He didn't know, but he didn't want his own problems to rear their head while he is in the field. One thing that no one had ever questioned since he took over the MCRT or NCIS was his judgment, and he intended on keeping it that way.

Tony sighed as he rose from his desk, running a hand through his now thinning brownish-gray hair. His knees, back, and neck ached when he moved. _Christ, I hate being old. _

Tony walked toward the director's private bathroom, opening and shutting the door quietly. Inside, he splashed some water on his face, trying to cleanse himself of the dark thoughts and emotions that were chasing him. _The pills can only block out so much._

Wiping off his now moist face with his sleeve, he looked into the mirror, finding his own bloodshot hazel eyes staring back at him. Wrinkles tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth, saying his age loud and clear. Although his hair was still mostly brown, he was starting to get gray around the temples.

The left side of his face, from the bottom of his ear and spreading over most of his left cheek and to his jaw line, was marred and damaged, a mismatched array of scars from the original severe burn and the following skin grafts.

No one escaped that night unscarred (whether it be physically like himself and Ziva, or mentally like McGee and Abby) but his reminder was blunt and ever-present, quite literally written all over his face. He could never escape what happened, the scar was a symbol that he would never again be who he was before that night.

Some would say he'd let his tragedies define him. Well, he would say to those people that your tragedies _do_ define you, whether you like it or not.

He winced, still not used to seeing his once pristine face damaged like this. He used to pride himself on his looks, now... well, the ladies weren't exactly lining up. He placed two fingers on the disfigured side of his face.

"I look like a monster," he whispered to the silent room. _Maybe I am a monster. I went into that warehouse a man - I came out a monster._

* * *

_A/N: Not sure how frequent updates will be on this. The chapters will alternate between flashbacks and current time, so, the next chapter will be a flashback._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A/N: This chapter has some mildly disturbing material in it, hopefully it won't make you squick, but if it does, my sincerest apologies. Just a little note, I take no credit for Thomas Doyle - he's the killer from Murder 2.0. I was always fascinated by that episode's plot and his character, so he's making an appearance here. Also, anything that seems unclear now will be clarified eventually.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS, just the twisted future I've crafted for them.

* * *

_**"Desperation, devastation  
All I truly know, all that I know...  
Is isolation  
Self damnation  
All life that I'd own  
Was shed and worthless now." -Rabbits are Roadkill on Route 37, AFI**_

* * *

_January 4th, 2015, 19:34 - Meat Packing District, Fairfax_

Tony busted through the door, finally able to find his way through the maze created by Thomas Doyle. He had to suppress a sigh of enormous relief when he saw Abby tied to the chair inside - she was terrified, bound and gagged, had a bright red slap mark on her face, but aside from that, she was conscious and uninjured.

He dashed forward, Gibbs right behind him. Tony untied Abby's wrists as Gibbs' carefully peeled off the duct tape over her mouth, then removed the gag. Words immediately flowed from Abby, as if the gag had been a dam holding them back.

"Gibbs! Tony! I knew you would come save me, I knew it! 'Cause you guys are like Batman and Robin, only, you know, without the tights and you don't have secret identities or- oh, screw it!" she flung herself into Gibbs' arms and sobbed loudly, wetting the front of his shirt.

Tony rubbed her back for a moment, the tension leaving his chest at the sight of his favorite forensic scientist. Only one thing left to deal with - find Doyle, and kill the son of a bitch. Or bring him in, though he definitely preferred the first option.

"We're here, Abs, we're here." Gibbs whispered in her ear, clutching her tightly. "Do you have any idea where Doyle went?"

"That corridor." she exhaled, a tear tracing down her cheek. "A couple minutes ago, his cell phone buzzed, he checked it, looked at me for like one second, and then ran away."

"Boss?" a breathless McGee appeared behind them. "Abby, thank God, are you alright?"

"No, but that doesn't matter." Abby looked between Tony and Gibbs. She gave them both quick kisses on their cheeks. "Go get that bastard."

And with that, Tony and Gibbs were heading down the aforementioned corridor, SIGs out in front of them, partnered with flashlights. The power had been cut off in the warehouse, finding Abby in the maze of hallways had been difficult enough, finding Doyle in this would be near impossible.

But Doyle had kidnapped Abby, hurt Abby (though not severely) and he and Gibbs would find him and make him pay. You don't mess with NCIS.

"DiNozzo, you get a look at the blueprints for this place?" Gibbs asked as he peered around one of the corners, his flashlight beam sweeping over the dusty and darkened warehouse interior.

"Yeah, but they're outdated. It was before this place was sold in '97, and it looks like Doyle's put up some new walls." he exhaled sharply out of his nose after he detected a distinct scent that caused panic to stir in his stomach. "Boss, you smell that?" Gibbs lifted his head and smelled the air, not unlike a wolf tracking prey.

"Smoke." he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Damn it." he cursed. "This was a trap."

"What do you mean, a trap?" Tony asked, but a second later, the pieces clicked together in his mind as they had in Gibbs'.

He hadn't wanted the money, that hadn't been his motive for kidnapping Abby, no. He would have known his trail would be too easy to follow - hell, maybe he made it too easy to follow. He knew they'd track him here, find Abby, and then...

Then he could set the place on fire, and they'd be caught inside, effectively killing off almost the entire MCRT and Abby. This wasn't for money, or fun, this was for revenge.

_Damn it all._

"DiNozzo, catch up with Abby and McGee and get the hell out of here." Gibbs ordered him, stopping dead in the middle of the hallway and turning to face Tony head on. "Now."

"But boss -"

"This isn't up for discussion." Gibbs cut him off, already moving to turn away, but Tony felt a flash of daring and grabbed his boss' shoulder, forcing him to look at him once again.

"No." he said, squaring his shoulders. He held Gibbs' ice blue gaze for a moment before moving ahead of his boss and taking point. He illuminated the end of the hallway with his flashlight, and declared it clear. He turned the corner, not looking to see if Gibbs was still there. "You got my six?" he asked, almost expecting silence.

He was met with a head slap, and to him, that was a resounding _yes_. He smirked as they continued on, ears and eyes sharp for signs of Doyle. They hastened their pace when small amounts of smoke began pouring into the corridor.

"Must have started the fire on the bottom floor, we need to find a staircase. That's where Doyle'll be." Gibbs said, charging ahead of Tony. He tailed his boss, and went from caution and protocol to basically racing through the place, hoping to God that they would find Doyle before he either turned them all into flash-fried NCIS agents, or escaped.

Finally, a steel staircase appeared in front of them, the smoke much thicker now.

"I don't know how long we can survive down there, boss."

"Long enough." was Gibbs' short response, and the older agent covered his mouth with his sleeve and pounded down the stairs, not waiting for Tony to follow him. Tony grabbed one more deep breath before plunging into the gray abyss after his boss.

They could barely see through the smoke and haze, and the heat was increasing as they traversed the ground floor. When he saw flames licking at one of the doors lining the hallway, he felt his heart skip a beat.

They were getting closer to the fire - and hopefully closer to Doyle. When they heard echoing footsteps in the distance, they pick up their pace. By this time, Tony's already scarred lungs were screaming for crisp, pure oxygen, and he was just barely able to dash after his boss.

"It came from the left." Tony wheezed, and Gibbs' followed his direction. The two men pounded down the hallway and there - at the end - Doyle's feet disappeared along another corridor.

"FREEZE, FEDERAL AGENTS!" Gibbs yelled, but of course Doyle didn't stop, they could still hear the frantic beat of his feet against the concrete of the hallways. Their pursuit continued, and the fire did as well. Soon, the flames were spreading unbelievably fast, so they were not only chasing after Doyle, but also outrunning the flames.

The fire eventually started lapping at their ankles. They knew that Doyle wasn't suicidal, so he must have been headed to the only exit on this side of the first floor. Fifteen feet ahead, they heard a door slam shut, and a faint hint of light disappear. The exit! Ziva was waiting outside to apprehend Doyle if he tried to run, so now they just had to get out and hope that Ziva was standing close enough to the back entrance and could catch Doyle before-

A huge, resounding crack shook the earth and nearly blew out Tony's eardrums. The heat suddenly felt ten thousand times hotter. He'd almost reached the door when everything turned to slow motion.

He could see the roof slowly collapsing over him, the flames licking at him, like claws trying to drag him down to hell. He realized even though the door was only a few steps away, there was no time. He and Gibbs were going to be crushed by the burning debris. They weren't going to make it.

Suddenly, a huge, warm mass tackled him to the ground. It must have been Gibbs, that was the only explanation. His face was plunged into burning hot embers, and he screamed, but Gibbs didn't release him. He felt tons of pressure piling on top of them, squeezing the life out of him, the fire impossibly hot and impossibly close.

The last thing he heard before passing out were Gibbs' groans of agony as the fire began it's work.

* * *

The first thing he became aware of was the pain. God, the pain - his whole body felt crushed, destroyed, _burned_. His face was the worst, feeling like someone took a burning hot knife and had it's way with the left side of his face.

The second thing he became aware of was the smell. Being a cop, Tony had had his share of experiences with arsons and burnt corpses, but the cloying scent of burnt human flesh had never hit him so starkly. The worst part was, he knew that the scent wasn't just coming from him.

That led to the third thing he realized. Gibbs was still on top of him. He held perfectly still for a moment. He felt no rise and fall in the body on top of him, he felt no human warmth or signs of life from him at all. He felt only weight on his back and the scent of burnt death in his nostrils.

And then the fourth realization - Gibbs' dead body was pressed down on top of him, pinning him to the ground along with tons of burnt, smoking debris. The fire must have stopped, because he couldn't feel any supreme amount of heat except from the burnt portion of his face and hands.

His main question was, how was he still alive?

He began to hear muffled voices in the distance. Women crying, the tears sounded familiar - Abby? Ziva? And he heard shouts, shifting. An emergency crew, perhaps. Then he heard someone call his name.

"Tony? Gibbs?" it was a masculine voice, one that sounded scared and desperate. He thought that it must be McGee. He made a groaning noise in his throat that was supposed to be his friend's name, but only a monstrous sound came out.

He tried again, and that time he believed that the "Here!" he shouted was able to be understood. He heard quick footsteps coming in his direction.

"Tony? Is that you?" he couldn't see anything, with his face still pressed to the ground, unable to move, but now he was sure it was McGee.

"Yeah." he choked, his lungs feeling like acid had been poured into them. His face - the pain was so unbearable that it was all he could do to keep from screaming and crying like a newborn infant.

He felt a hand on his head, and then the shifting off the wreckage on top of him. "What...?" he heard McGee's voice trail off as he no doubt saw the body on top of Tony. "That's not... Tony, that's not..." the younger agent couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah." Tony replied again, glad that he didn't have to see McGee's face right now. Or anyone's face. Yes, that dead, burned body that's squishing him was Gibbs. Their boss. Their leader. Their mentor.

And honestly? Their father as well.

He heard McGee scramble away, and then the unmistakable sound of retching. He would empty the contents of his stomach as well, but he didn't have the energy. He couldn't even open his eyes... nor did he want to.

"Tim!?" he heard Abby's voice call in the distance. "Did you find them? Please tell me you found them!" he heard platforms clicking, and he wanted to stop her, had to stop her from reaching him. She could not see this.

"Abs, NO!" McGee shouted at the top of his lungs. "Stay with Ziva and the EMTs!"

"Answer me! Did you find them!?" she screamed though she listened to McGee and didn't come any closer.

"Tony's here, he's alive." McGee told her, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. Tony groaned, trying to communicate the fact to McGee that he needs out _now_. "Get some of the emergency responders over here, okay?"

He faded in and out as the emergency crew unburied him and Gibbs from the disaster that the warehouse had become. When they finally freed him, he let out a huge breath as all of the wreckage pinning him down was lifted away, and then Gibbs' body was removed as well. He was quickly turned over, and his face burned even worse. A flashlight was shined in his eyes, but he couldn't comprehend exactly what was going on.

He blacked out, and the next thing he remembered was being in an ambulance, McGee at his side, the other man's hand firmly gripped with his. Everything was hazy. He guessed that he was on some kind of pain medication, and he felt an oxygen mask over his mouth, allowing pure air to flow into his smoke-choked lungs.

"Pro... bie..." was all he could get out past the mask and haze. He realized that McGee's eyes were shining and red. The other man had been crying. He didn't hold it against him. If he had enough energy, he'd probably be crying, too.

"Tony?" McGee leaned forward, hazel meeting green. "You're going to b-be okay, alright? We just have to g-get you to the hospital." his voice was shaking, and he seemed ashamed of that, but he shouldn't bave been. He couldn't bring himself to speak, his throat burning like fire, his head throbbing, his face feeling like it had literally melted off. Before his eyes drifted shut once again, he squeezed McGee's hand as hard as he could.

* * *

He heard muffled voices, the beeping of machines. He felt an uncomfortably hard mattress underneath him as well. _A hospital... I'm in the hospital. I'm alive. _He tried to focus and narrow down the voices. McGee was there... and Vance as well...

He slowly opened his eyes, and the blurry figures came into focus. The entire left side of his face was completely numb, and he could thank the pain medication for that. He looked between the two men in front of him, who didn't seem to have noticed that he was awake.

"How long did it take you and Abby to get out of the warehouse?" Vance asked. His arms were crossed and his jaw was set like a stone. Since his wife's passing, Vance and Gibbs had become much closer, since the NCIS director had definitely needed someone to lean on, and, as always, Gibbs was there. Losing what could only be called his closest friend after losing his wife and oldest friend barely two years ago? Guy probably felt terrible.

"I... I don't know. So much was going on, I lost track of time. Five, maybe ten minutes." McGee was sitting in one of the rigid hospital chairs, his head leaning on his own laced together fingers. McGee blinked hard a few times, eyes lowered to the ground.

"Stop torturing yourself, McGee." Vance told him, expression softening slightly. "The only person to blame here is Doyle."

"D-did you catch him?" Tony said, lifting his oxygen mask far enough away from his face so he could speak. McGee's head snapped up and Vance's eyes darted to him. All he cared about now was whether Ziva had managed to get to Doyle as he was escaping. Gibbs was dead, he had died saving Tony's life - now, all that was left was vengeance.

He didn't care if he lost his badge over it. He didn't care if they put him in jail. If Tony had the option, he would end Doyle's life. Gibbs would have done it for him, that was something he knew without question. McGee stood up, walking slowly towards Tony, lip trembling slightly. Tony hacked out a cough, the brief break from the oxygen mask doing no favors for his lungs. "Damn it, McGee, did you get him?"

McGee shook his head, lips pursed. "No. When he got out of the building Ziva tackled him, just as the warehouse collapsed. She tried to cuff him but he shot her twice - once in the thigh, another time in the abdomen." he paused for a split second. "I went to Ziva instead of chasing after him."

"Is she alright?" Tony asked immediately. _No, I can't lose them both. I can't._

"She's stable. Both of the shots were through and through, and neither hit anything major. A few weeks or so and she should be fine. Abby's with her now." McGee told him quietly.

So, there was something to be thankful for. Ziva was still alive. He was still alive, but at the moment, that was something he didn't particularly care about.

"How long has it been?" he inquired, having absolutely no sense of the passage of time.

"You were pulled out of the warehouse ten hours ago." Vance answered, examining him, studying him in that shrewd way of his. He and Gibbs were alike, in that way. "It's three in the morning."

"Does everyone..." he took a gulp of oxygen as his voice lost strength. "does everyone know?"

"Everyone who needs to know, knows." Vance replied evasively. "The agency, his father. I haven't told the media yet. I'd prefer not to involve the press until we've caught Doyle."

"Agreed." Tony replied, struggling to sit up in bed. He felt McGee's hand on his back, helping him sit. "How fast can I get out of here?"

"What?" McGee exclaimed. "Tony, you nearly died - half of your face is melted off! This isn't just a stay-one-night-in-the-hospital-and-go-back-to-work-the-next-day kind of thing!"

"No, this is a our-boss-was-just-burned-to-death-and-I-don't-give-a-shit-what-parts-of-me-are-melted kind of thing." Tony growled, his voice feral.

"DiNozzo, there's no way I'm letting you anywhere near the field for the next two weeks, at least. You've got severe burns all over your face and hands, the only thing keeping you from writhing around in agony is the morphine drip the docs have you on." Vance said firmly, giving Tony a look that dared him to argue.

"I want to get this bastard. I _need_ to." Tony persisted. Couldn't they understand this? This wasn't a choice for him. Like the drive Gibbs had felt after Ari killed Kate, he now felt the same determination. He couldn't just sit in a hospital bed and do nothing. He _wouldn't._

"What you need is rest and medication." Vance replied, unfazed. "McGee's taking the lead on this case. I'm lending him a few agents to get the job done, since you and David are both out of commission."

"Director-"

"This isn't a discussion, Agent DiNozzo." Vance paused after saying this, his expression softening ever so slightly. "I'm sorry this happened, I am. Gibbs was a bastard, and damn it if I didn't like him, but the son of a bitch will haunt me if I let anything happen to any of you." Vance turned, making a move towards the door. "McGee, I'll see you tomorrow. DiNozzo - I better _not _see you."

As the door to his room shut, Tony pressed his oxygen mask to his mouth and sucked in several deep breaths. McGee scooted the chair he had been sitting in before closer to Tony's bed, taking a seat and telling him silently that he would not be alone tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.

* * *

**_"There is blood on the tracks tonight  
And rust inside our veins  
Will it ache every time I hear the storm  
running behind me?" -The Running From the Rain, Thursday_**

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 02:09 - NCIS Director's Office, Naval Yard, Washington DC_

Tony sucked in a breath, trying to force his mind to come back to the present. This was why he avoided McGee and Abby, why he even tried to avoid Palmer if he could manage it. The memories were too much. The good reminded him of what he'd lost, and the bad was nightmare worthy enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

He didn't want to let his tragedies define him. Coping skill number one had always been complete avoidance for him. That, at the very least, had not changed. But even if he tried to steer his mind in any direction other than his past, it was still there, lurking behind the present and seeming to color every decision he had made.

He had never been able to face what happened. He had never come to terms with the fact that Gibbs had died saving his life, and that he had died inches away from Tony and he did nothing. Logically, there was nothing he could have done by that point. But what if he hadn't argued with Gibbs earlier in the warehouse? Would the older agent been able to get out in time? What if he had run just a little faster? Or decided to go back the way they came and tried to head Doyle off outside?

The 'what ifs' were the things that tortured him the most. That if maybe even one move of his own was different, Gibbs would still be alive... that killed him. He looked away from the mirror, turning his back on his reflection in disgust. _I'm pathetic. Standing here angsting over the past when I was too afraid to even face it in the first place._

Maybe Abby was right. Maybe never talking about it had caused his life to turn stagnant. _But what am I supposed to? The only person I would have ever been able to talk about that with would be Ziva... _

But Ziva was gone, and he was alone. He had internalized everything. Buried his emotions so far down he wasn't sure how to feel anything at all anymore. _You're a coward. You didn't use to be a coward._

He clenched his fists, starting to feel slightly sluggish as the narcotic-induced haze began to settle in his mind. He needed sleep, but for some reason, the idea of resting right now made his stomach turn.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he slipped it out, tapping it to check the text he had just received. It was from Abby, unsurprisingly. _"It's not supposed to be like this."_

Well, that was understatement of the century. No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. _But 'supposed to be' isn't life. This is._

He typed out a quick message to her, all he could think to say was a simple _"I know." _because he does. This wasn't what Gibbs wanted to happen following his death, the letter his boss had left him had shown him that much.

He was sick of this - sick of everything being so utterly _wrong_. For the first time in eight years, he felt power inside of himself, a power to change something. To make things a little better. Maybe it was just a strange side effect of the pills, he didn't know, but he needed to get out of the Naval Yard. He needed to go to the place he had been avoiding for so long, the only memento his mentor left him other than a brief missive.

Without a second thought, he tried to blink passed the mist of his medication, headed back into his office, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and headed out the door. It was time to face his demons.

* * *

He wasn't sure what he was looking for here, but he was looking for _something_. Anything. He stepped out of his car, shivering against the ice cold night. It may have been spring, but winter still had it's clutches firmly locked around Washington DC. Snow flakes fell in a lazy downpour, settling in his air and eyelashes and dusting the neighborhood in white and gray. The street lights cast eerie shadows across the sidewalk leading up to the familiar house, dark figures warning him away.

He thought about leaving, about heading to his own apartment and letting sleep take him, but he stopped himself. _I'm done being a coward._

He moved forward slowly, fatigue dragging him down. His footsteps echoed in the sleepy and silent DC suburb, his only company in the lonely night. He reached the front door and slipped out the key he had worn around his neck for eight years. _It's time. _He never thought he would be able to do this without Ziva here... but maybe, somewhere along the lines, he had come to accept the fact that Ziva wasn't coming back.

He slid the key into the lock, twisting it until it clicked. The fact that the door was locked was the first clue that the house's original tenant no longer resided there. He stepped inside, and the weather of the interior almost completely matched that of the exterior.

He took in the living room that used to be so familiar with him. The comfortable and warm earth tones were rendered colorless by the thin beam of moonlight streaming through the window, and the lived in feeling that once defined the room was long gone. He used to observe while he was here that it was noticeable that once upon a time, a woman had lived here. A _family_ had lived here.

There was no sign of life now; the house was like it's owner... dead. _Although technically, I'm the owner now. _Gibbs had left him two things in his will - this house, and the short letter that he had folded and placed in his wallet. It hadn't left that place after he had shown it to Ziva.

He had left no details as to why he had given Tony the house. Maybe he thought that Tony could build a life there, build his own family. For once, Gibbs had been wrong. You can't build a family on a broken foundation.

He paced through the living room, into the kitchen. Whispers of memories he had tried to block out pushed at the corners of his thoughts, threatening to take him back to a happier time that would just make him resent how things had turned out even more.

The good hurt just as much as the bad, sometimes. He laid a hand on the counter, and it was freezing to the touch. He looked out the window into the backyard. Over the past forty years or so, since whenever Gibbs had purchased his home, this house had seen so much death... too much death.

He sighed, sticking his hands under his arms in an attempt to provide himself with some warmth. He headed towards the stairs, walking up and feeling like he was almost violating his boss' privacy. _I gave you the damn house, DiNozzo. I don't care what you do in it. _he heard a strikingly familiar voice in the back of his thoughts.

Hearing voices. Always a good sign.

He walked into the room that Gibbs had once shared with his wife. It had been converted into an emotionless guest room, sometimes housing him when his plumbing went bad or when he had just gotten too drunk on Gibbs' mason jars filled with bourbon to be able to drive himself home.

There was a small chest resting on the windowsill. Tony moved forward apprehensively, laying a hand on the top and brushing off the thick layer of dust. Everything in the house was exactly as Gibbs had left it - he felt almost as though he was violating the last remnants of his legacy.

But Gibbs had given his home to him... he needed to remember that. He slid open the catch of the chest and saw the large gathering of crumpled notes and index cards inside. _The rules._

He picked out the first one he saw, unfolding it and staring at the familiar handwriting. _"Rule #5: Don't waste good."_

Don't waste good... wasn't that what Gibbs had said to him all those years ago? Yes, it was. He had received his first head slap, along with his first introduction to Gibbs' rules. _"I have a rule, and that rule is 'don't waste good'... you're good." _he had patted Tony's cheek and pointed him to the hiring and applications office, and that was how it all began.

Twenty two years. Every part of his life that really mattered had happened in the past two decades. Meeting Gibbs, joining NCIS, meeting Abby, Ducky, Kate, and then later McGee and Ziva... he had met the family he was cheated out of as a child, the family he had lost when his mother passed away.

He still missed her. He barely remembered her anymore, but he found himself looking at the picture he had of the two of them at the cinema everyday. He may not remember her much, but he remembered the feeling she gave him. She made him feel safe.

There were only a few people who ever gave him that feeling. None of them were around anymore. The only means of safety he had anymore was the cold weapon resting in the holster on his hip.

He slid the note back into the box and shut the top, but instead of leaving it there, he tucked it under his arm and headed back down the stairs. He didn't go into Kelly's room - he couldn't bring himself to do that, to venture somewhere that was so intensely private for Gibbs.

Once back on the ground floor, he made a beeline for the steps leading down to the basement. His actions seemed to be guided by an invisible hand as he made his way down the wooden steps. He halted where he always would before entering, quietly beseeching Gibbs to allow him access.

But there was only the smell of stale booze and sawdust in the air, and no hint of the presence that had once resided there. Not that the smell was terribly different from what it had been in the past, but then it had been fresh booze and sawdust. He was surprised to find that there was a world of difference between the two scents.

He flipped on the light before continuing down the steps, the temperature dropping even further. He could see his breath in the frigid subterranean air. He set the chest of rules down on Gibbs' long abandoned work bench. He tucked his coat closer around him, trying to stave off the cold.

He looked at Gibbs current project, another boat - half finished. No name had yet been painted on the side, but he suspected that since at the time, Ducky had just recently died, the boat would be named after him. They all had been hit hard by the ME's sudden death. A permeating gloom had hung over NCIS for a long time. He knew that Gibbs had blamed himself. His boss had been unstable in the weeks following his friend's death. Hell, he had punched Tony out at Ducky's funeral.

It was one of the only times he had ever seen Gibbs lose control. Ever.

Later that night, he had appeared in this very basement, watching as his drink-sodden boss downed another glass of bourbon. _"It's not your fault." _he had told him. Gibbs had just looked at him then, eyes bloodshot. He then silently offered him a mason jar of alcohol, which Tony gratefully accepted. It had dulled the pain from his busted lip.

Ducky had a heart attack while working down in autopsy. Palmer's wife had gone into labor earlier that day, and he was at the hospital helping his wife through childbirth. Ducky had been alone. Gibbs had arrived down in the sub basement three hours later to find that Ducky was as still as the body he had been ready to dissect. In Gibbs' mind, he had gotten there too late, and that meant that Ducky's death rested solely on his shoulders.

The last thing that man needed was anymore guilt.

Tony touched one of the bottles sitting out, deep amber still filling half of it. He wasn't sure what the shelf life of the stuff was, but he found himself not caring about that or as to whether mixing the drink and his hydrocodone would do any serious damage. He grabbed a nearby mason jar, probably the one Gibbs had drank out of the night before the warehouse fire, and filled it to the brim.

Taking a deep sip and nearly choking at the bitter taste, he opened up the chest again and began taking out each rule and looking it over in the dim light of the basement that had been his refuge on his worst of days. The rules that had guided him through his life presented themselves to him, and the ones he had ignored and neglected in recent years stood out starkly as reminders of what he'd become.

_#1: Never screw over your partner. _After Ziva had departed, McGee had become his sole partner, and in his mind, he had certainly screwed the other man over. In the time that McGee had needed him the most, he hadn't been there.

_#9: Never take anything for granted. _He had taken everything for granted, and he hadn't realized what he had until he had lost it all. Now, he even took for granted the fact that he was alive, because most days, the simple fact that he continued to draw breath angered him.

_#51: Sometimes, you're wrong. _He hadn't even been aware that there was a fifty first rule. This appeared to be the last one. He had them all spread out in front of him now, a collection of the wisdom Gibbs had collected over the course of his years.

His boss had left him a practical guidebook on how to live his life, and he ignored them. Once upon a time, he had his own rules, a mixture of his own and Gibbs', but he had long since abandoned them. He picked up rule number fifty one and read it once more.

_Sometimes, you're wrong. _

He wondered what instance had prompted Gibbs to write that. There had been very few instances where the man had been wrong, after all. That was something that had been so frustrating about Gibbs - he was always so convinced that his gut was right, that he was right, and the most infuriating part was that he was so often right that Tony couldn't fault him for trusting his own judgment over anyone else's.

Somewhere along the lines, he had lost his way, even though a practical paved road had been laid out before him. He had dealt with loss and death before, an unhealthy amount of it, in fact. But every time, with the exception of his mother's passing, Gibbs had been there to catch him as he fell, been there to listen to his rambling, his fears, the insecurities that he wouldn't dream of letting anyone else see.

But when he lost Gibbs, he thought he might be able to survive, just maybe, by leaning on the only other person he had ever felt that kind of secure safety around. Although it had taken a long time to build, he had found something in Ziva he hadn't had at any point in his life before that. He thought that maybe, just maybe, Ziva and he could lean on each other and get through losing the only father figure either of them had ever had.

But Ziva had left, and he had withdrawn into himself and built up walls around him one hundred feet tall and fifty feet thick, not daring to let anyone in or even see what might be going on. All Abby, McGee, and Palmer could do was look on as he shut down anything resembling a human emotion and hid from anything even close to real. Watched him turn into a shell of a man.

_Sometimes, you're wrong._

Overcome with an impulse, he rooted around Gibbs' desk and found a thick pencil and scrap of paper and touched the tip to it. It was time to continue on this aspect of his mentor's legacy as well. It was time to stop taking things for granted, it was time to try and do something with the life that Gibbs had sacrificed his own to save.

He wrote the words slowly, trying to put everything he had felt in the past eight years into six simple words.

_Rule #52: Don't let your tragedies define you._

He folded the rule in half and placed it carefully in the box along with all the others, shutting it carefully as he leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.

He felt so many ghosts around him as he sat there, and he almost thought that if he closed his eyes for a few moments and then opened them, he would see Gibbs standing there, nursing his own glass as he sanded down a strut of the boat and giving him an appraising look, the mixture of concern and exasperation that always seemed to reside there when he looked at Tony.

He didn't know whether it was out of desperation or lethargy, but he closed his eyes. He could almost swear that he heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs, but he was sure he was imagining it. He knew that when he opened his eyes, he would be met with only dust and aged wood.

"Tony?" he froze at the sound of the voice, his entire body tensing and his heart skipping a beat. _No... no, it can't be. _He opened his eyes, and then they widened as they set eyes on the woman he hadn't seen in eight years.

"Ziva," Tony whispered.

* * *

_A/N: Now, I got all of the rules from a reputable website, so I'd like to think they're somewhat accurate. Regarding how many rules there are, I don't have a clue. "Rule Fifty One" made it seem as though at that point in the timeline, there was only fifty rules, but then I heard Gibbs mention a rule sixty nine in "The Devil's Triangle", but this fic is working off of the assumption that there are only fifty one rules at the time of Gibbs' death._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

A/N: Wow guys, I'm overwhelmed. Fifty followers already - thank you so much. I should probably put a warning here, this story will have a minor Tiva subplot. There will be no established relationship, essentially just the UST and feelings you're used to from the show.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS

* * *

_**"And the tears come streaming down your face **_

_**When you lose something you can't replace **_

_**When you love someone, but it goes to waste **_

_**Could it be worse?" -Fix You, Coldplay**_

* * *

_January 18th, 2015, 20:39 - Ziva's Apartment, Washington DC_

Tony knocked on the door, not even sure if Ziva was home or not. Her car was parked out front, but he wouldn't have been surprised if Ziva had gone to stay overnight with Abby after the funeral. They all needed someone right now. At this particular moment, he needed her.

Correction. He needed to _tell _her. The message from Gibbs had confirmed what he had been trying to build up the courage to do for so many years, and this had shown him more than anything that life was too damn short for him to keep pussy footing around. He needed for her to know how he felt.

He was at a distinct disadvantage - he was, without a shadow of a doubt, damaged goods, both mentally and physically. She had every reason to reject him, and she probably would, but he had to know if she would at least give him a chance.

He knew either way she would be here for him, but for once, that would not be enough for him. He waited a few moments to see if she would open the door, and he had to suppress a slight sigh of relief when the door finally did open.

Ziva looked as ragged as he felt. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, eyes red and worn, lips pursed and arms crossed. Her crutches lay forgotten on the floor nearby, and he almost rolled his eyes. Leave it to Ziva to get shot and then start limping around her apartment and abandon her crutches barely two weeks later.

"Hey." was the only thing that came to mind.

"Hello." Ziva responded, eyebrows knitting together as she looked him over. "You look terrible."

"Thanks." he smirked half heartedly at her as she stood aside and let him into her apartment. "A guy always loves to hear that."

"I did not mean-" she broke off as he shut the door behind him, halting in front of her. "Did you even sleep last night?"

"No." he answered honestly. The past two weeks had been a hell of brief stints of medicated sleep, skin grafts, and so much _waiting_. Waiting for a call that Doyle had been caught. Waiting for an update on McGee. Waiting for the all clear from the doc to go home.

He had been released the day before Gibbs' funeral. He had immediately beseeched Vance to put him back in the field. Vance had told him that he would put him on desk duty, but he wanted to see how he was coping with the now ever-present physical pain and the loss of his boss before he put him back in the field.

The hunt for Doyle had not been going well. The man was seemingly a ghost, disappearing without a trace following the warehouse fire. They had an APB out on him, a BOLO out on the car he was believed to be using, and they were monitoring every airport on the eastern seaboard for the fake IDs they were aware of.

Nothing. Doyle had gone underground... deep underground. They had finally managed to get a tip a week ago that he was at a gas station near the outskirts of Norfolk, and McGee had released the troops on him. However, Doyle was long gone before they arrived. From what he heard secondhand from Abby, McGee was going after Doyle with a vengeance.

"I've never seen him like this," she told him, green eyes wide with worry. "Tony, I've never seen him this _angry_."

He was glad that he wasn't the only one with fire burning in him. Although he wanted more than anything else to be on this case, he trusted McGee. Once McGee had Doyle in custody, then Tony would intervene.

He was willing to sacrifice everything to kill him. To get the revenge that he needed. The revenge that Gibbs deserved. His badge. His job. His life. Any jury would find sympathy with him, especially after the crimes Doyle had committed both before his incarceration and after his escape.

That was until yesterday. They finally got a decent lead. Doyle was supposedly holed up in a low budget motel downtown. McGee had set the phone down, eyes holding a dark quality to them that Tony had never seen before. He had jumped up on his desk and whistled, gathering the attention of everyone in the squad room.

"Unless you're saving the free world, I want every agent down at the President's Inn on 34th!" Everyone dutifully obeyed. After all, McGee was now the leader of the major case response team while Tony was still on desk duty and recovering. Dorneget, who had taken over for Ziva for the time being, shot Tony a sympathetic look before grabbing his SIG and heading for the elevator.

McGee halted in front of Tony's desk. Tony looked up at him, and he extended his hand towards McGee. McGee took it, eyes never leaving Tony's.

"Kill him." he said quietly. McGee nodded before releasing Tony's hand and departing after Dorneget. He had hated being left behind, but he had faith in McGee. He had seen the younger agent go from a scared little boy to a confident, brave man.

One hour later, he received the call that Doyle had been captured, not killed. It was a start, he decided. Thirty minutes later, Doyle was being led by a regiment of guards to interrogation. He had been chained around the hands and ankles. He had looked over at Tony, a sly smile on his face, and it was all he could do to keep himself from sprinting over to the man and strangling him.

But not yet. Not now.

McGee had walked back into the squad room, dropped his bag on the desk, and then kicked a six inch wide dent in the metal desk. He paced the bullpen, one hand on the back of his neck, the other one flexing, trying to keep itself from forming a fist.

"He's killed more, Tony. More than just Gibbs. We found a butchered corpse in his hotel room, and he just looked at me and laughed, he said there were more." he paused, eyes on the ground. "We have to let him live, at least until we find out how many, where the bodies are..."

"He might be bluffing." Tony pointed out. McGee shook his head.

"We found a knife, a hatchet, and a necrotome in his room. All covered in blood. I sent them down to Abby, and I wouldn't be surprised if there's multiple victims blood on there." McGee swallowed noticeably. "I'm going to interrogate him."

"Let me," Tony said immediately, practically jumping out of his chair. "Tim, you've got to."

"No." he responded, voice low. "No, I'm the lead on this case, Tony." he looked at him then, a deep frown on his face. He looked older than he had ever seen him. "And I can't let you kill him." Tony had glared at McGee, trying to express that this shouldn't even be a discussion. "I'm sorry."

Following that, McGee had left the bullpen without another word, heading towards interrogation. After a moment's deliberation, Tony had followed him, but had reconciled himself to merely observing. When he arrived, Vance was there. The director made no comment on his presence. Doyle was uncuffed and waiting with a smirk on his face for McGee's questioning to begin.

At first, McGee's control was remarkable. Slowly, though, Doyle's taunting began to get more and more personal. McGee had exhibited restraint, turning his back on Doyle and taking deep breaths, trying to find his center and not launch across the table and beat the man's head against the interrogation table over and over again.

But then he said something that even McGee couldn't let pass.

"I saw DiNozzo." Doyle had said, leaning forward and giving McGee a smile that made Tony's skin crawl. "Not so handsome anymore, huh? I'm surprised he wasn't killed... but this is better, actually. Having to live his life looking like a monster, and knowing that Daddy Gibbs died saving his worthless life."

McGee, moving as fast as a lion, had grabbed Doyle around the neck and dragged him up. A second later, Tony was getting an up close view of the back of Doyle's head, and the dark and irrepressible fury in McGee's eyes. He was surprised that Vance was still standing utterly still next to him.

"You son of a bitch," McGee's face was only an inch away from Doyle. "Gibbs and Tony? They're worth a thousand of you." His grip tightened. "He was like a father to me, to Tony, to Ziva, and you killed him. He _burned to death_."

Doyle laughed in his face. "Oh, I'm quaking in my boots right now. Did you find him after the fire got to him? After those pretty blue eyes of his melted out of their sockets? The smell of a burning corpse, it's really unique-"

McGee took Doyle and bashed his head hard against the glass, causing it to crack like a spider web. McGee's reflection was split by the damaged glass, making him look monstrous.

The thing about being in law enforcement? You spend your entire life standing on the edge of an deep, dark abyss. You see the kind of things human beings are capable of doing to each other - and it changes you. When you stand on the edge of a pit that deep, eventually, no matter who you are... you're sucked in.

He watched as McGee finally fell into the black depths he'd been staring into for so many years.

A second passed, and suddenly McGee had Doyle on the floor, hands at his throat, choking the life out of him. This was when Vance chose to act. Vance darted out of the observation room and into interrogation, putting his hands on McGee's shoulders and trying to pull him away from Doyle. Tony observed passively from behind the broken glass.

McGee seemed to be in a world of his own, everything about him feral, giving into his baser instincts. For Tony, it was terrifying to see him like that. The boy he had once called 'Probie' was now surrendering to his own rage and trying to end the life of another human, willingly.

And Tony did nothing to stop him. If he had gone into help Vance, he might have been able to get McGee off of him in time.

He regretted nothing.

Vance eventually managed to throw McGee off of Doyle, but by then he had been unconscious and out of breath for several minutes. He was carted off to Bethesda after that, where the doctor declared that he had received extreme brain damage from going so long without air. He would be a vegetable the rest of his life, trapped inside his own body.

When he had been told this, all he could think was _good._

It was strange, though. Somehow, the interrogation camera had been left off... the recorder hadn't been operational, and the interrogation tech had been out for a smoke break. According to Vance, Doyle had launched at McGee and began physically assaulting him. It was Vance's conclusion that McGee would have been killed had he not wrapped his hands around Doyle's throat and throttled the life out of him.

Tony confirmed his story.

At first, McGee had been furious with himself, believing that they had lost any lead to the rest of Doyle's possible victims, but the lab analysis from Abby had arrived late that night. Doyle apparently had been bluffing. The blood all belonged to the body of the man found in his hotel room.

When he had found that out, McGee had stared down at his hands, and Tony would have given all the money in the world to know what his partner was thinking. Abby was standing nearby, lips pursed, eyes worried.

"It felt good." McGee whispered, barely loud enough for Tony to hear. "It scares me that it felt good."

He had stayed at McGee's apartment last night. It wasn't the kind of night that the younger agent should be forced to face alone, and with Gibbs' funeral the next day, they could at the very least help each other prepare their eulogies.

So no, he hadn't slept the night before, and he was beginning to regret it as tiredness tugged at every inch of his body. He had told Ziva everything that happened over the phone the night before Gibbs' funeral. She was glad that Doyle was doomed to being a vegetable, and that it was no less than he deserved.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't agree.

"Nor did I." Ziva told him, settling herself down on her couch, clasping her hands together. "I have not slept well in the past two weeks." Tony shuffled awkwardly for a second before taking a seat a few inches away from her.

"I don't think any of us have..." _Get to the point, DiNozzo. Do what you came here to do! _"I need to talk to you." he withdrew the letter Gibbs had left him from his pocket and handed it to Ziva without another word. She took it from him warily, eyeing him before unfolding it and reading what was written there.

"Tony, I..."

"I have a feeling yours looks the same." Tony interrupted as Ziva's mouth fell open slightly. "This is me, getting my head out of my ass." he shifted closer to her, and their eyes met, deep brown boring into hazel. She shook her head, though she didn't look away.

"This is not the time or the place for this. Not now." she said quietly. He lifted his hand and placed it on her cheek, brushing his thumb over her brow.

"I need to know. I need to stop pretending." _This is it, DiNozzo. Make it or break it. Gibbs has never been wrong before, right?_ "I love you, Ziva." There. He said it, and he meant it, and it felt good to finally let her know... to stop hiding it from her.

Their eyes remained locked, and it was without a doubt the longest moment of his life.

And then she pulled away from him. His heart plummeted in his chest as she withdrew to the corner of the couch, hugging herself.

"No, Tony. I cannot do this. I am sorry." Tony just stared at her, not comprehending.

"You can't tell me you don't have feelings for me! After everything we've been through together, there's no way you don't..."

"I don't." She said, and he hoped she hadn't meant it to come out as harsh as it did. "You do not know what you are feeling right now, Tony. You are emotional because of Gibbs' death, we all are."

"This isn't because of Gibbs' death!" Tony exclaimed. "I've felt like this for years! This," he gestured to the letter Ziva had set down on the coffee table. "gave me the courage to tell you. I'm not blinded by grief and just looking for something to make me feel better, I don't want comfort, I want _you_."

"I think it would be best if you left." Ziva said softly, refusing to look at him now. "We both need rest."

"Don't do this," Tony pleaded with her. "please."

"I am sorry." Ziva repeated, and Tony could see the walls going up around her. That was one thing they always had in common. When it came to emotions, they both tended to shut down. Right now, he wished that she was less like him.

He rose slowly from the couch, and he felt like he should say something to her, but his mind drew a complete blank. He had told her he loved her, the three words he had been holding back for so long... and she had rejected him.

He turned his back to her and walked out of the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind him. He hovered there for a long moment. He looked down at his hands, the new skin from the grafts shining in contrast against his own tan skin. _Damaged goods._

_I'm damaged goods._

He thought they both were, but perhaps he was wrong. Maybe Ziva was merely a wilted flower, and he was a dead rose. With that dismal thought, he left her apartment building.

He tried to call her several times over the next week, but her phone was turned off. The final time he called, he was told that the number had been disconnected. That's when he had finally gone over to her apartment again, beginning to worry for her safety. He had knocked on the door for ten minutes straight. No answer. Her car hadn't been outside either. He tried the doorknob and found that it opened up. The door hadn't even been locked. _Ziva always locks her door._

He walked into the apartment, but he was met with nothing but four walls and empty space. Every ounce of furniture, every possession and keepsake she owned was nowhere to be seen. Her closet was empty, and the only thing left of her bed was the iron frame.

Ziva had disappeared without a trace. He wished that there was some kind of proof that maybe she had been forced to leave against her will, that she hadn't made this decision on her own, but on the kitchen counter now completely devoid of the appliances that once rested there, an index card had been left for him.

This was too familiar for his liking.

He moved forward slowly, as if he was in a dream, and entered the empty kitchen. He picked up the note and read it over once, twice, three times.

_I am sorry. I'm not coming back._

A sickening sense of deja vu settled in his stomach as he held it in his hand, and he felt as though it was burning him. He crumpled it up in his fist and shoved it in his pocket, letting out a sharp breath and leaning against the counter. _She broke rule number six._

_And rule number one._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

A/N: Ah, right, some people don't like Tiva... to any readers who dropped the story because of the subplot, well, I'm sorry. Can't please everyone, I suppose. I would have put the warning in the summary, but I didn't want to spoil anything. To those of you who are sticking with me, thanks. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.

* * *

_**"The leaves will fall, and so will you**_

_**And when you do, bury me under them, too**_

_**The seconds pass, we'll make it through**_

_**Eventually we all go home." -Autumn Leaves Revisited, by Thursday**_

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 03:09 - The Basement, Gibbs' House, Washington DC_

He sat there, shocked, as Ziva David walked slowly down the stairs and into the small amount of light that illuminated the basement. She looked the same as he remembered, olive toned skin and eyes the color of chocolate. She still moved with a refined grace that reminded him of a tiger on the prowl. Although there were small lines tugging at the sides of her lips now, and dark circles hung under her eyes, she still looked... beautiful.

_This has got to be a dream. I fell asleep at my desk after shoving a fistful of pills down my throat, and any minute now I'll wake up. _Yet Ziva continued standing there, looking him over with a pensive stare. She didn't disappear.

"I did not expect to see you here." the Israeli accent was almost impossible to detect after all the time she had lived in the states. "I thought you would have sold it by now."

"No," Tony replied. "This is..." he let out a brittle laugh. "this is actually the first time I've been here since it happened."

He knew that she didn't need clarification on what 'it' was. Ziva ran a hand across one of the wooden struts, eyes distant and distracted. "So, how have the past eight years been for you?" he asked, voice comically conversational. When she didn't answer, he acted as though she had asked him the same question. "Oh, me? I'm great. Awesome. Fantastic. I lost my boss, my friends, and a nice chunk of my face, but things are just peachy. Especially with all the wondering about where the hell _you've_ been. That was a nice touch." he didn't filter out the accusation and bitterness in his voice. He knew he should feel happy, blissful, relieved to see her... but it had been a long time since had felt any of those emotions. Maybe he had forgotten how to feel anything positive.

Ziva remained silent.

"You know, being in Gibbs' basement doesn't mean you have to act like Gibbs." Tony commented, rising from the stool. "But let's skip the pleasantries, since you clearly aren't interested." he paused right behind her, and was stunned by how she could smell exactly the same as she did the last time he had seen her. "Why are you here?"

"I needed somewhere safe to go where I would not be found." she looked at him over her shoulder. "This seemed like the best place, if you hadn't done anything with it... which you haven't."

"Hiding from someone?" he asked. "You're so good at that, I mean, you've hid from me and everyone else for _eight years_. Why would you need to come here to get away?"

"If you are going to stand here and berate me for my choices, I will find someplace else to go. I did not come here to fight with you." Ziva said, not rudely, but with a sense of finality.

"Tell me what you're running from and maybe I'll consider letting you stay here." she eyed him dubiously when he said this. "I _do_ own the house. You're on my property."

She seemed to contemplate challenging him before relenting and leaning against the workbench, looking him up and down. "Fine, but I'll warn you, it is a long story."

Tony sank down onto the stool he had previously occupied, pouring himself a little more bourbon.

"I've got time." he said, setting the bottle back down and clasping his hands together, an indication for Ziva to start talking.

"Since I left NCIS, I've been working as a free lance private detective. With my skill set, it was really one of my only options. It pays my rent." she shrugged. "I'm good at it."

"I see that you've finally discovered contractions. How nice." he commented. It was strange how natural it felt, it was something he would have said in the past, and it slid out of his mouth easily. Even eight years of separation from his ex-partner couldn't break the habits he had formed over the decade he worked with her.

"If you're going to be a smart Alex, I will not bother telling you." Ziva said, crossing her arms.

"Alec. It's smart Alec. Like Alec Baldwin." he said, massaging his temples.

"Whatever." Ziva waved him off. "Anyway, I was recently hired by a man named Reza Hassan, who's sister was murdered after being kidnapped and tortured ruthlessly. Her body was cleaned, posed in a local park with a pink ribbon in her hair, a white dress, and a black pawn clutched in her hand." she ran a hand through her hair, seeming worn down. "Mira Hassan was the first. There have been three more since."

"You must have quite the reputation if someone would trust you to find this sicko over the NCAVC." The NCAVC was the FBI's National Center for the Assessment of Violent Crimes. They were given the task of handling serial offenders, and they handled some of the most violent homicides in the country.

"I'm good at what I do." she repeated. "I have been working this case for the past six months. I was getting closer when the most recent victim, Mindy Wilmot, was found in a park in Annapolis last week."

"Annapolis. So that's where you've been." She had been that close the entire time. Just over thirty miles away. He had given up searching for her after he found her note, but McGee and Abby had continued looking for her for her months after her departure.

It was one of the only times he had ever seen Abby fail at something.

"Yes." Ziva said, not elaborating further. "Although her death was tragic, with every death there was more evidence. Killer's get cocky with success - they slip, they make mistakes. It's how the Unabomber was eventually caught. They indulge their own narcissism, and it's generally their undoing in the end."

"Is this like your thing now? Serial killers?" Tony asked, cocking his eyebrow at her.

"I have been tracking this man for a long time, Tony. I've made it my thing." she shook her head slightly. "He is cold, calculating. Everything is done so carefully, meticulously. Like this is an art, for him."

"You're starting to sound like a profiler." Tony commented. "Keep going."

"I think I've found a connection. The victim before Mindy, Lauren Baxley, she didn't wear contacts, yet when her body was found, there were contacts in her eyes."

Tony deadpanned, trying to indicate that he wasn't following.

"Mindy _does_ where contacts. When asked to work cases that are already under police jurisdiction, I generally work as a consultant with the Annapolis police department. Although originally they resented my presence, I've made friends on the force of the past few years, and now I have no problems from them. I pointed this out, so the CSIU team check the prescription - it matched Lauren Baxley's. This man, the Pink Ribbon Strangler, they call him, he's giving us clues to future victims!"

Tony nodded, now following Ziva's train of thought. "But why would he do that? Make it easier for himself to get caught?" he questioned.

"I think that he is doing at as a show of power - maybe an indication that even if we know who is next, we won't be able to stop him. The precision and the planning of these crimes, whoever is behind this is smart, narcissistic, and arrogant, but still cautious." she paused. "But I was getting closer, and somehow he knew that."

Tony waited silently for her to continue, not liking where this was going.

"I was called to the scene where Mindy Wilmot was found, as I've been working as a consult since the second girl's murder. She had on a pair of sandals... I recognized them. I own the same pair. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but when I came back to my apartment that night..." she pursed her lips, eyes lowered. "there was a black pawn sitting on my bed, and my sandals were missing."

"So... this guy, he snuck into your house, took your shoes, and left a pawn on your bed?" Tony asked.

"The thing is, Tony, I remembered that I hadn't seen those sandals in my closet when I put on my shoes that morning. He snuck into my house _while I was asleep_ and took them, then broke in the next day and left a pawn on my bed." he could tell how much this had unsettled her. Ziva had always been proud of the fact that she could keep herself safe, and this had shaken her to her core.

"Ziva, you're one of the lightest sleepers I know. You sleep with a gun inches away from your hand! There's no way he could have snuck into your house, into your _bedroom_, without you waking up and putting a bullet through his brain."

"That is exactly it, Tony." she replied. "He is better than me. And that scares me." Before he had a chance to say anything, she continued. "He knows where I lived, and no doubt the places I frequent - I had to go somewhere that I had never told anyone about, a part of my life I had left behind." she motioned to the basement around her. "This was the only place that I could go."

"What would you have done if I had sold the place, or I was living here?" he asked. _Would you have ran away again? Or would you have come to me for help?_

"I would have left." she answered quietly. "I did not come here to drag you into this, Tony."

"Too bad," he responded, a little harsher than he meant to. "you dragged me into this the second you came back to DC."

"Oh, so you own the city, is that it?" she asked, irritation creeping into her voice.

"No, but in case you've forgotten, I don't sit on the sidelines while my people are in danger." For one of the first times in years, he felt _alive. _A fire was lit inside of him, one that had been burned down to nothing but coals after the team fell apart.

Ziva was here, standing in front of him, and a psychotic serial killer was chasing after her. Even though he was still infuriated, confused, and hurt by her departure all those years earlier, the fact that she was here now, by some cosmic accident of fate, and she needed help, even if she refused to admit it... that was something he couldn't ignore.

"I can take care of myself." Ziva stated, and he wasn't surprised by her response.

"A psychotic serial killer is after you, Ziva. I'm not going to just say, 'oh, sure, borrow my house for a little while, hope you don't die, see you later!'. I'm the director of a federal agency. I can get resources, I can catch this guy so you can..." he broke off. _So you can go home._

She seemed to understand what he was getting at without him having to say it, but she also raised her eyebrows at him. "Director?"

He wasn't shocked that she didn't know. NCIS made the news once in a blue moon, and probably the only announcement of his promotion to director one year prior had been scrolling text at the bottom of the screen on ZNN.

"Yep. After Vance got the call from the top brass that he made SecNav, he asked me if I wanted the big chair." he shrugged. "I took it."

"I am..." she didn't really seem to know what to say. "I'm happy for you. But director or not, this man hasn't killed any sailors. NCIS has no claim for jurisdiction."

Damn it. That was true. Those were the breaks with NCIS - it was naval criminal investigation. If no sailors or marines were killed, and none of the bodies were dumped on a base in his jurisdiction, he couldn't do anything. This was the FBI's ball field.

"Has the FBI sent anyone to Annapolis yet to handle it?" Tony inquired.

"Not yet, but I assume with four murders now, agents will be dispatched relatively soon." Ziva said with a shrug.

"Well then, isn't handy that we know someone in the FBI?" his mind was moving fast now. Ziva was right, NCIS couldn't get a hand in on this - but if he could get the right person assigned to the investigation, he could ensure that Ziva's input was still taken into account and that this sick-o was caught, and fast.

"Fornell?" she questioned. "I doubt that he would do us any favors, Tony, even out of respect for Gibbs."

"Who ever said anything about Fornell?" Tony took another deep sip of his bitter drink before crossing his arms. "You've missed a lot in the past eight years. McGee's with the FBI now. He's the lead agent at the Denver field office."

"What?" she seemed genuinely surprise. "When did he transfer to the FBI?"

"About three weeks after you left." he told her, directing his eyes away from her and on his drink. She didn't really seem to know what to say to that. "I figure, we give Tim a call. Maybe see if he's willing to take lead on this case, take you on as a consult to the FBI, keep me informed. He can assign agents to guard you, and we tie this all up in a neat bow and catch the son of a bitch."

There was a moment of silence before Ziva spoke.

"Why are you doing all of this, Tony? Why are you helping me?" she asked quietly, brown eyes meeting his. He was surprised to find that the answer came to him immediately.

"You're family." he said softly with a mild shrug of his shoulders. It was the absolute truth, and all he could offer her. No matter what hell he had gone through, how many nights he had stayed up wondering if she was even still alive, or where she was, or why she had left, he couldn't walk away from her now.

He wasn't sure if that made him weak, or strong.

"I'm going to call Abby, get McGee's number, and I'll see if he'll ask Fornell to put him on the case." Tony said, pulling out his phone and sending a quick message to Abby asking for McGee's number. Abby would most likely assume that their conversation had stirred him to get in contact with McGee, and would give it to him without question.

"You don't have his number?"

"No." he answered, not really feeling like going into details of how things had fallen apart since she'd left. He didn't want her to know that losing Gibbs then her all in the span of a month was too much for the team, and the foundation crumbled.

A second later, he received a text from Abby with McGee's number enclosed. He wasn't one hundred percent sure as to whether he was dreading or looking forward to speaking with McGee. His stomach formed an unpleasant pit. Damn it, he missed McGee. He had been his best friend, practically the little brother he never had...

But he had left, and to him, the blame for that rested squarely on his own shoulders. He did nothing when he received McGee's two weeks notice, didn't even speak to him about it - he let his last team member leave without doing a single fucking thing.

He had told himself just a few hours earlier that it was time to stop being a coward, and he intended to hold true to that. He had long since passed his phase of being a juvenile child-man, but he still handled his problems and emotions like a child.

_I'm fifty four. It's time to grow up._

Tony punched the number into his phone and waited for McGee to pick up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

**_"Chances blown, nothing is free_**

**_Longing for what used to be_**

**_Still it's hard, hard to see_**

**_Fragile lives, shattered dreams." -The Kids Aren't Alright, The Offspring_**

* * *

_February 18th, 2015, 12:07 - NCIS Squad Room, Washington DC_

Tony stared daggers at the screen of his computer, trying as he had for the past three weeks to focus on something for more than fifteen seconds. The time that had passed since finding Ziva's empty apartment had been a mind numbing hell. No matter how hard he tried to redirect his thoughts, they always managed to find their way back to the two sentences she had deemed fit to leave him.

The hollow feeling left by Gibbs' death had magnified ten fold. He had never felt more alone. McGee, Abby, Palmer, and even Vance had tried their best to coax him into talking about how he felt, or at least spending sometime with them. They all had their own subtle, and not so subtle ways of comforting. So far, they hadn't helped.

He was beyond help.

Abby, who was often found curled into herself, her back against her desk, with Bert held tight in her arms as she rocked slowly back and forth, was the first to try and reach him. Even with her own heart torn open, ripped out, stepped on, and then thrown into rush hour traffic, she tried to help him. He knew that she saw straight through the facade of strength he put on, but he still wasn't going to let her in.

He had shot down every suggestion of grabbing a drink, a meal, or just talking. The disappointed look in her wide green eyes sent a knife through his heart every time, but the only thing he ever felt motivated to do anymore was work. At least he wasn't lying to her when he told her that he really wasn't feeling up to it.

McGee had been the next, letting Tony know that he was there for him in honest terms - he had actually just straight up said that. It was shortly after Ziva's departure.

"Tony, we all need someone to lean on right now. I'm here for you if you need me," McGee had said, sincerity and concern written all over his face, no doubt having seen Tony withdraw far into himself on account of the recent tragedies.

He had muttered his thanks, and nothing more had been said on the subject.

Palmer had clumsily asked if he was okay every time he had gone down to autopsy, clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder a few times, tried to give him supportive smiles that seemed to be more like a grimace. Hell, he had even invited him to have dinner with him, Breena, and Alexis, their one year old daughter. He had declined as politely as he could.

Vance's approach had been significantly more blunt. After they had reached the month mark of Gibbs' death, Vance had summoned him to his office. Tony had entered quietly, standing stock still in front of his desk, waiting for some indication of why he had been called.

"You're falling apart, DiNozzo." Vance glanced up at him, toothpick poking out of the corner of his mouth. "And don't try that 'I'm fine' bullshit. They didn't give me the big office for my sunny personality. I study people. I studied Gibbs, and I study you." he paused for a second, letting his words sink in. "You need time. I want you to take the offered leave, especially now that David's gone."

"With all due respect, _sir_," he turned the word into a poisoned barb. "I don't think you have a clue what I need."

"I've been where you are," Vance replied, not bothered by his comment. "I know what you're going through. The time I took off to grieve is what saved me from going off the deep end."

"Can we cut the crap here, director? Is this a suggestion or an order?" Tony asked, not feeling like being the subject of Vance's pity. The director's eyes bored into him for a long moment before he sighed and handed him a piece of paper.

"Sign here if you want back on field duty, DiNozzo. You passed your evaluations." Tony was relieved that Vance had left it there instead of pushing further. That was the last thing he wanted, or needed...

He had been back on field duty for two weeks, working a cross jurisdictional case with Fornell as his first case as leader of the MCRT. Vance had offered all those close to Gibbs a month off to grieve... unsurprisingly, everyone mirrored Tony and refused it. The only thing keeping him going now was work. Life may have turned into shades of white and gray, holding little meaning for him, but Gibbs left him a job to do.

And he was going to do it.

Dorneget had been reassigned to the USS Ulysses for his first assignment as an agent afloat. Vance had assigned Special Agents Sarah Logan from legal and Harry Feller from the cyber crimes division to the team, as McGee was now the senior field agent, leaving his position and Ziva's open.

Logan was a demure looking women, with wispy brown hair and watery blue eyes, and a seemingly perpetual lost puppy look. From what he had observed so far, she was a perceptive and personable, though she probably couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with her SIG or her fists.

Feller was a whiz with the computer, though McGee's skills still far surpassed the younger agent's. Feller was tall and gangly, with wire rimmed glasses leaning on his nose and a mop of curly blond hair on his head. His social skills could definitely use some work, but he followed orders without question and was quick thinking, so Tony didn't have many complaints about him.

They were capable people, and with a little work they could be great agents. He should be happy that he had gotten lucky with two halfway decent agents and not some leftover that Vance hadn't been able to find a place for.

He wasn't anything close to happy. On the best days now, he felt nothing at all - he simply existed. On the worst, the thin undercurrent of rage that pumped in his veins threatened to take him over. Many late nights he had found himself in the NCIS gym, taking out the dark feelings inside of him on one of the punching bags downstairs.

It was the only coping method that actually helped him - managing to actually take out his frustrations on something. If only he had been able to get his hands on Doyle before McGee did...

Life was moving along at a miserable snail's pace, barely dragging him along. He wasn't sure how long he could function on auto pilot before he completely lost himself. He removed his hands from his keys, blinking several times and trying to center himself. The side of his face burned, still paining him. The doctor said that with the amount of damage that had been done, his scars from the fire would most likely always pain him.

He was supposed to have an appointment with his doctor to discuss his pain management regiment tomorrow. Maybe if the pain was dulled slightly, he'd be able to attempt to try and get back to... normal? God, he didn't even know what normal was anymore.

He realized there was a stack of paperwork slowly building up on the left side of his desk, and he hadn't bothered to even skim through the stack yet. He slid the one on the top of the pile in front of him, tapping a pencil tip to it, eyes squinting hard to read the words. For a few seconds he halted, not quite comprehending the neatly typed text.

"_This is a two week notice regarding the voluntary termination of Special Agent Timothy McGee's employment with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service and subsequent transfer to the Federal Bureau of Investigation..."_

Wait... what?

"Tim," Tony called, barely loud enough for the other man to hear. He tore his eyes away from the paper to meet McGee's guilty green orbs. McGee absent-mindedly scratched at the back of his neck, pursing his lips as he looked at Tony.

"I... needed a change."They both knew that there was much more too it than that. Much, much more. "I'm... I'm sorry, Tony."

And that was it. Ducky and Gibbs died. Ziva left. And now McGee was leaving, too... and maybe there was something he could've done, looking back, but in that moment, something inside of him just gave up. There were thousands of options of what he could have said to McGee at that moment. _"Don't apologize, McGee, it's a sign of weakness," _or_ "Is there anything I can say to make you stay?" _or _"I know this has been hard on all of us, Tim, but I'm asking you as a friend to not give up just yet."_

"It's fine, Tim. We've all got to move on sometime." Tony said, his voice almost nonchalant. Tony looked away and back down at the agency transfer form. He flipped to the last page without even bothering to read it, and quickly signed his name at the bottom. He offered it to McGee, who was still staring at him.

Maybe McGee expected him to stop him from leaving. Tony expected it of himself, but something inside of him finally gave up the fight. Better that McGee leave then end up dead, right? Hopefully he'd have better luck with the FBI... they certainly didn't lose as many agents as NCIS did.

No, no one seemed to lose as many agents as they did.

McGee finally rose from his desk, slowly making his way over to Tony's. He retrieved the paper, and their eyes locked for a long moment. He didn't know what he saw in McGee's eyes - whether it was the need for Tony to just talk to him, to do or say anything at all, to let the walls fall, or if it was just his way of silently begging him to make things make _sense_.

The moment passed, and McGee had turned his back to him, heading back to his own workspace. The next two weeks were a mixture of the two of them dancing around the fact that McGee was leaving or just dancing around each other in general. Luckily, they didn't have terribly pressing cases over that period (he suspected that Vance was purposely giving him the easy stuff) so avoiding eye contact and conversation with one another was rendered somewhat easy.

He was a robot, doing the tasks given to him, and in his private time, trying not to fly into a rage born of repressed emotions and destroy everything within a fifty foot radius. He was frozen in place in his life, and he supposed that not feeling was better than the alternative.

No one seemed to be aware of McGee's impending transfer, other than the two of them and Vance. He idly wondered when Abby would find out, wondered if perhaps she would try and convince McGee to stay. Since Tony had shut down, they had only each other for comfort.

But, instead of trying to convince McGee to stay, Abby surprised Tony by dragging him into a conversation he never wanted to have. He had gone down to her lab for the results of her recent mass spec when it happened.

"Well?" he asked shortly, walking briskly into her lab. He didn't try to feign Gibbs' mannerisms with coffee cups, cheek kisses, and 'what do you got, Abs's. It wasn't like when Gibbs was temporarily gone, or his mini-retirement in '06. He wasn't just holding Gibbs' things for him until he got back anymore.

Gibbs wasn't coming back. There was no point in pretending like he was.

Instead of answering him, Abby rounded on him, green eyes bloodshot and red, cheeks flushed, and a general aura of confusion and anger about her. "Well _what_!?" she snapped, hands turning into fists.

"Well... what do you have? Did the mass spec on Lance Corporal Penn's uniform turn up anything?" Tony asked slowly, not entirely understanding her demeanor. She just glared at him for a long moment before turning her back on him. "Abby?" he repeated, taking a step closer to her. Her breathing was harsh, her shoulders tight with tension.

"He's leaving," she said finally. "He's leaving. Everything's falling apart."

"He'll just be at the Hoover building, Abby. He'll still be in DC." Tony told her quietly, not wanting to have this conversation. He wanted things to go by the script he had crafted in his head, where Abby would tell him that she had found this that or the other thing, and then he would go upstairs and bark orders at his team.

_His team. _Why did thinking that make him feel sick to his stomach?

Apparently Abby was feeling like ad-libbing today.

"And you!" she said, turning on a dime to face him once again. "You didn't even try to stop him! You haven't said a word to him about it!" her voice was getting higher and angrier, and he saw tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "Do you even care anymore, Tony?"

"He's a grown man," he said bluntly. "He can take care of himself."

Then, she slapped him.

And it hurt. A lot, actually.

She went to do it again, apparently unsatisfied, but he grabbed her wrist. "Stop," he said, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. A moment passed before he released her arm, satisfied that she wasn't going to try to hit him again. She glared up at him, only about three inches shorter with her massive platforms on.

"Unless you have something for me, this conversation is over," he said, making it clear that this wasn't up for discussion. Something flashed in her eyes at that moment, something that absolutely broke him on the inside, intensified his self loathing. That's when he took the step from resenting himself to hating himself. Hating how useless he was. Hating that he couldn't be there for him, couldn't be brave for them.

He was supposed to be the metaphorical older brother, the strong one, the shoulder for everyone else to cry on. They were supposed to be able to lean on him. Those thoughts were reflected in Abby's eyes. She expected him to make everything better. To comfort her, to answer her phone calls at three in the morning because she'd had another nightmare, to stop McGee from leaving, to keep everything in the world from falling down.

Basically, she expected him to be Gibbs.

No matter what, he would never be able to live up to those expectations. He couldn't be the man that Gibbs was, no matter how much he wanted to be. He was just Tony, and it had never been good enough, and it wasn't good enough now.

She had shoved a half torn test result sheet roughly into his chest before turning back to her computer. He had smothered an angry sigh before turning on his heel and heading to the gym. Hopefully no one would be there, it was the middle of the day, most people were on their lunch breaks.

He was right, luckily. The gym was completely empty. Not bothering to tape his hands or wear gloves, he made a determined and furious beeline to the nearest heavy bag. Wasting no time, he let a right hook fly into the imaginary enemy that the punching bag represented. Then an uppercut. Left hook. Roundhouse kick. He continued on, barely aware of his surroundings. The bag took dozens of different forms, mainly that of Thomas Doyle, but almost everyone who seemed to have ever been in his life appeared as well.

Gibbs. His father. McGee. Vance. Hell, he even thought he might have been letting his fists fly at Ari at one point, but in the end, it degenerated to him just wailing out his frustration on an effigy of himself. After what could have been one hour, one month, or one year, he sagged to the floor, propping himself against the wall, sweat dripping down his brow. As the adrenaline began to fade, he realized his hands were on fire. He held them up, and winced. They were split open, the entirety of them covered in blood. He let them fall to his thighs in a resting position, and they soaked his pants as well. He winced. They were probably broken.

Strangely, he found himself not caring about his destroyed hands, or much of anything at all. Which was... good? He had managed to boil everything inside of him into a stew of rage, which he had managed to get out of his system, at least for the time being. If he turned everything inside of him into one, understandable emotion, he could deal with. He couldn't go through every terrible feeling that's ever existed all at once without just bursting from the overload.

Hate and anger, those were things he understood. Those were things he could handle.

He wiped his hands off on his pants before heading to the locker room and changing into the extra pair of clothes had there. He then made his way to autopsy. He quietly asked Palmer if he could bandage his hands. The ME had simply nodded. Although he had cast Tony a worried and serious look, he hadn't asked him any probing questions. Maybe he was learning after all.

Finally back to whatever facade of normal he could put up, with thick bandages around his knuckles, he returned to the bullpen. He didn't make eye contact with McGee, merely headed to his desk and pretended as if he was alone. It wasn't a hard thing to do.

One week later, it was McGee's last day as an NCIS agent. They acted like nothing was amiss; it was just an average day. However, when quitting time came, around seven o'clock, he felt McGee's presence at his side as they waited for the elevator. He felt the tension and awkwardness radiating off of his partner. _Of course, he's not going to be my partner anymore, is he?_

When the doors slid open, they stepped into the elevator together for the last time. Tony's fists clenched almost against his will as McGee pressed the button for the bottom floor. He wanted this to be over, to rip off the band aid and be done with it. He didn't want to look at McGee, didn't want to talk to him, because he didn't know what he would or _should_ say.

However, off his own accord, his eyes met McGee's, which had been unabashedly staring at him. Suddenly, his entire friendship with the younger man flashed before his eyes. Distant words echoed in his head, the hesitant words of a young, barely out of university McGee.

_"Should I close him off, or..." the nervous voice on the other end of the phone trailed off._  
_"No. The best thing is for you to do nothing. Okay, Agent McGee? Just secure the area and wait for us to get there. Okay," he hung up the phone, turning to Kate. "Case agent at Norfolk sounds pretty green." he noted with a hint of exasperation. He hated working with rookies. _

Dear God. Had it really been twelve years?

"I..." it was McGee who spoke first. "thank you."

He didn't know what the hell he was being thanked for, but all he could do was jerk his head in what he hoped was a nod. "Good luck, Tim," he said, almost too quiet for anyone to hear.

And that was it. McGee left for his car, Tony left for his, and in a blink of an eye, an era came to an end. A chapter of his entire life.

In the span of a month in a half, he had lost the entire team, in one way or another. That night, he went to a bar, and he drank as much as he could - just the right amount that it would dull his emotions and memories. He escaped from his life in the only way he knew how - by forgetting it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_A/N: Originally, I intended for this to be strictly from Tony's POV, but I decided it would end up short changing the story if I didn't include McGee's POV as well. I'll be adding him on as a second character once this is posted._

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

**_"Oh brother I can't, I can't get through,_**  
_**I've been trying hard to reach you, 'cause I don't know what to do,**_  
_**Oh brother, I can't believe it's true,**_  
_**I'm so scared about the future and I wanna talk to you." -Talk, Coldplay**_

* * *

_April 1st, 2023, 21:10 - Senior Agent's Office, FBI Field Office, Denver, Colorado_

Timothy McGee sat at his desk, trying to rub the fatigue from his tired eyes. It had been a long day, and he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. They were currently dealing with a series of serial arsons around the Denver area, and the FBI field office had been tasked with canvassing the eight crime scenes and trying to find the perpetrator.

This was the first case of arson he'd dealt with while working for the FBI, and he definitely wasn't in his comfort zone. During his first four years with the FBI in Washington DC, he dealt with mostly homicides, kidnappings, and mob related crimes. Now that he was the lead agent at the Denver field office, he dealt mostly with killings, kidnappings, and serial rapists/killers.

With arsons, there wasn't nearly as much evidence left behind as there would be if he was working a homicide, and he and his team had been hitting dead end after dead end. He was thinking of perhaps passing off the investigation to the Denver PD, who had far more experience with this kind of thing than him and his relatively new team.

He had sent Mayfield, Isles, and O'Hara home about and hour before. He tried not to run his team too hard, and unless they had a case that would blow up without their constant and immediate attention, he tried to have them out of the office by at least seven every night.

Of course, he didn't hold himself to that rule. If letting his team go home early and have some time to rest and cool down meant taking on some extra work, he'd make that sacrifice. Scottie wasn't terribly happy with his decision in regards to this, but he wouldn't budge. He was the team leader, it was his job to put in the extra miles.

His team had just passed their four year anniversary of working together. He had come to Denver with Joshua Mayfield, Kara Isles, and Dominic O'Hara waiting for him. He believed that Director Fornell had purposely given him agents that were all fairly novice as a challenge. I silent question of, "_Can you handle it, McGee?"_

Josh was the most experienced, having been out of the Academy for about three years. Kara and Dominic were fresh out of Quantico, neither having any field experience. It was a slow process, becoming a legitimate team. In his mind, he narrowed it down to three aspects. Building respect, building trust, and building up his team's confidence.

Leadership came more natural to him than it should have, but somewhere along the lines, Gibbs had given him enough faith in himself to believe that he was capable of heading a team. He also made sure that his team knew his rules, a list that was slowly growing, inspired by Gibbs' original creation. He borrowed a few rules, but most of them were of his own design.

It didn't real hit him that he was in charge until they started calling him boss. He liked it and hated it at the same time. Something inside of him still felt that 'boss' was a title that should be solely ascribed to Gibbs.

Within a year, he was surrounded by a group of people he would give his life for. For the first time since Gibbs' death, he felt like he had a team. A new family. Once he met Scottie two years after his assignment to Denver, the feeling grew stronger.

He was engaged to be married, had a team he was close to and could count on, a job he loved... he was happy. The four years he had spent with the FBI in DC following Gibbs' death and Ziva's departure had been difficult. He had lost the team, Doyle's blood was still fresh and warm on his hands, a thousand miles of metaphorical distance had grown between him and Tony, and even he and Abby were growing apart.

He might have loved her, he decided, but Abby had made it clear a long time ago that the two of them would only be friends following their brief relationship. Sometimes it was hard to be around her, knowing that. It had only intensified after the disastrous warehouse fire. They went from having lunch once a week to weekly phone calls, weekly soon turned to monthly. That's where they were at now. Monthly courtesy calls, occasional meetings on Skype, texts on slow days.

He and Tony, on the other hand, hadn't spoken in a year and a half. His once best friend had made no effort to contact him, so McGee had given up on trying to fix whatever it was that the destroyed his brotherly relationship with the other agent. Tony had been pushed to the breaking point with Gibbs' death, and Ziva's disappearance pushed him over the edge.

When McGee left DC, Tony DiNozzo wasn't the man he used to know.

He was jarred by the sound of his phone ringing. His eyes darted down to his iPhone 9, the screen reading 'unknown caller'. He furrowed his brow, hesitantly picking up. "Hello?"

At first, the person on the other end said nothing. He was about to repeat himself when a familiar, masculine voice erupted on the other end. "Probie?"

A million thoughts went through his head upon hearing the once-normal nickname from the person on the other end, whose identity he was now completely sure of. His mind seemed to freeze, not really computing anything. "It's been a long time since anyone's called me that," was all that he could think to say.

There was a breathy laugh on the other end. "Yeah, you're not a Probie anymore..." McGee then recognized the sound of a hand covering the mouth piece of the phone, and then muffled whispering. Tony returned after a moment, his voice slightly hoarser. "Something's happened."

"I figured... we haven't talked in over a year," he made sure his voice held no accusation. Tony had coped in the only way he knew how, and that was shutting down. He wasn't going to hold that against him if he could avoid it.

"Tim..." Tony sighed heavily on the other end. "I'm sorry, I am. I'll make it up to you once you get here."

It took him a second to catch up with what Tony had just said.

"Here? As in Washington DC?" McGee asked, nervously tapping his fingers on his disk as a feeling of restlessness settled over him.

"As in Gibbs' house in Washington DC," Tony supplied. "I know I don't have the right to ask you for favors after being such a jackass to you since... since it happened. But I need you, Tim. We need you, actually."

"We?" McGee echoed, pacing in front of his desk, his thoughts whirring. _He must mean him and Abby, that's the only explanation. But why wouldn't Abby just call me?_

"Well... I'll let her explain," he said slowly, and he heard the sound of the phone being passed to someone else.

"Hello, McGee."

_I haven't heard that voice in eight years._

"...Ziva," he whispered, his heart quickening. He experienced an onslaught of emotions all at once, most of which he could barely begin to understand. Relief, first and foremost. He had really begun to think that she might be dead, and that fact that she wasn't took a crushing weight off of his chest. Ziva had been one of his closest friends, like a sister to him.

Secondly, anger. Anger that she had just left them after they had already lost Gibbs. Anger that her abandonment had been the final crack in the team's foundation, causing everything to crumble.

And thirdly, he was confused. Very, very confused.

"I don't even know what to say," he told her honestly.

"Put it on speaker," Tony's muffled voice said in the background. He heard a click on the other end. "Would you care to explain?" McGee assumed that Tony was directing the question at Ziva.

"I'd like to hear where you've been for the past eight years, if that's okay," McGee commented, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"She's been working as a private investigator in Annapolis," Tony answered before Ziva could get a word in. "Right in my backyard, practically."

"Oh," he responded, still not sure how to handle this news, or what to say. He just shook his head, trying to regain his ability to carry on a conversation.

"She's in trouble," Tony told him when Ziva remained silent. "Have you heard of the Pink Ribbon Strangler, McGee?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar. He had heard whispers of what looked like the beginnings of an active and methodical serial killer on the eastern seaboard, but he hadn't heard much so far. The FBI generally didn't intervene until it was either made clear that the LEOs didn't have the resources or competence to handle the situation, or the number of killings rose to a level that the FBI had to step in before things got worse.

Alternatively, if the case hit a level of national notoriety, the press would be pressuring them to do something, thus forcing their hand. Since none of these things had happened yet, the FBI hadn't sent anyone to supplement the Annapolis PD.

"I've heard some rumors about him, why?" McGee asked cautiously. _What has she gotten herself involved with?_

"He is... he's after me," Ziva admitted with a sigh. "I have been working as both a private detective and occasionally a consult for the Annapolis PD homicide division. I was hired for this case by a member of one of the murdered family members, and I was eventually added on as a consult, since I was investigating the murders anyway."

"What do you mean, he's _after_ you? How did he find out that you were involved in the investigation?"

"We can only assume that he is either monitoring the crime scenes, or has connections in local law enforcement," Ziva explained. "He must have found out that I'm working the case, and has for some reason chosen to target me."

"Probably because you're the closest to catching him," Tony pointed out. Tony's voice sounded very different from the last time he had heard it... for the first time since the team fell apart, Tony actually sounded... alive. Though he couldn't help but notice that his words were slightly slurred.

"Tony, are you drunk?" McGee asked carefully.

"Turns out bourbon and narcotics don't mix well," Tony said, dragging out the end of the sentence. "Minor setbacks,"

"Narcotics?" it was Ziva's turn to be confused. "Why would you be taking narcotics? Do you have some new injury I'm not aware of?"

"Um, my face?" Tony asked, and McGee guessed that Tony was motioning to the aforementioned part of his body.

"Tony's been on hydrocodone since a little bit after you left, Ziva. It's for his scar," McGee told her. Although he hadn't been exposed to Tony very much once he started taking the heavy narcotics, Abby had shared her suspicions with him that he might be taking too much for his own good. The first pill was for the pain, the six after that were for the memories.

"I was not aware it was paining you that much," she said quietly, and McGee guessed that she was speaking to Tony.

"Don't we have bigger fish to fry than whatever I'm throwing down with my morning coffee?" Tony asked tiredly. "Let's get down to the point - this guy, the Strangler, he's murdered four people. The first two were one year apart, the third one was two months ago, and the fourth one was a few days ago. He's getting confident... dangerous. Doesn't the NCAVC want to get their fingers in the cookie jar?"

"I'm sure Director Fornell is planning on sending some agents to Annapolis," Tim replied, running a hand through his short hair. What exactly was Tony getting at here? Why would he and Ziva call him, when he was halfway across the country, when the headquarters of the FBI was only a few minutes drive away from them?

"That's the thing, we don't want just anyone on this. We need someone who will take the threat against Ziva seriously. Someone we can trust. Someone who will... unofficially... let NCIS poke their nose into the investigation," he said slowly, apparently waiting for him to catch up with his train of thought.

"You want me to come to Maryland and head the investigation," McGee surmised. It wasn't a question. He leaned his head on his palm, unsure of how to take this. Tony and McGee's friendship had fallen apart years and years ago, and this was the first he'd heard from him in over a year and a half. If it had been anyone else, he would have thrown them into the class of people who only contacted him when they needed something.

Tony wasn't that kind of person, though. He had watched the once boisterous man withdraw into himself like a hermit crab crawling back into it's shell. He had guessed that somewhere inside of Tony's messy, confusing mind, he thought that it was no longer worth being close to anyone. Love and friendship led to a loss and pain that the older agent could no longer handle.

Right now, he wasn't sure if it was the potent mixture of alcohol and heavy pain killers that was making the Tony he used to know come out, Ziva's presence, or something else he didn't quite understand. _There's only one way to find out._

But he couldn't just up and leave his post in Denver. He was the lead agent here, and wasn't expected to just go traipsing off to the capitol for an investigation he had no reason to be involved in. Although still a member of the NCAVC division of the FBI, it was the agents that weren't officially attached to a field office that would handle the murders in Annapolis.

Of course, he did have a certain amount of pull with Fornell, who trusted him enough to give him his job with the bureau in the first place, and then later on given him the position at the Denver field office. His relationship with the aging director of the FBI could only be compared to how a friend of his father's might treat him, only with the father in said scenario being Gibbs. If Tobias Fornell had any soft spots, he had one for McGee.

If he called, chances were he would at the very least be put on the case, or more likely asked to lead the investigation, and Josh would be temporarily in charge of the FBI team in Denver, a task McGee was sure he was capable of. With his reputation in the bureau, it was almost a guarantee. Agency transfers were generally sure bets to be ambitious and talented when it came to law enforcement, but according to his various superiors over the past eight years, he had been a shining star in the FBI from day one, his field experience and savvy tech skills combining together to make a well-rounded agent, hence why he progressed through the ranks so quickly

So, only one problem remained. Scottie. His girlfriend of three years, and his soon to be wife. With investigations surrounding serial killings, there was no telling how long they could go on. He could be in Annapolis for weeks, months even if it was a dead-end investigation. With NCIS assisting (off-record, naturally) it was unlikely to take that long, but nonetheless, he didn't want to leave her for an extended period of time.

He sighed, realizing he had been silent for almost a minute. "McGee?" Ziva asked hesitantly. "I realize we are asking a lot of you, but please... we need you." _We need you. _Even after all that had happened between them, all the years and the pain and suffering that separated what used to be Team Gibbs, they were still his family.

"I'll..." he paused, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I'll call Fornell, see if I can get assigned to the case, but I've got to talk to Scottie first."

"Scottie?" Ziva questioned.

"She's the Mrs. McGee to be, right?" Tony asked. Apparently Abby had informed him of his upcoming nuptials. McGee nodded before realizing that Tony couldn't see him.

"Yeah. I'll call Fornell tomorrow morning once I've talked to her," he promised.

"McGee, I don't know how to thank you," Tony told him honestly. "I guess the best I can offer you is a bed when you get here. Gibbs' house... I think I might actually clean the place up a little bit."

A short pause.

"Is that the first time you've been there since it happened?" McGee asked quietly.

"Yeah," Tony muttered. "Yeah, it is."

"Thank you, McGee. It is good to know that I still have people I can count on, in spite of my... absence," Ziva interjected, breaking the somewhat awkward silence that had settled between McGee and Tony.

"You'd do the same for me," McGee said, and he felt a warm feeling spread through him when he realized how true the statement was. "I'll call you guys once I know more. Stay safe until then, okay?"

"Safe is my middle name, McGee," Tony assured him, and he thought he detected some of Tony's old sarcasm in his voice. McGee just rolled his eyes at his ex-partner.

"Goodnight, McGee," Ziva said, gratitude in her voice.

"Goodnight, guys," McGee said softly before pressing the end button. He stared at his phone for a long moment, feeling a strong wave of emotion hit him. He had just talked on the phone with _Tony_ and _Ziva_. Before Gibbs' death, that was just a standard part of everyday. Now, it seemed like it was something to be treasured. He was surprised to find tears burning at the corners of his eyes, and he struggled to blink them away.

Maybe his ex-teammates weren't the only ones running from their pain. It didn't hit him fully until that moment how much he _missed _them. He missed being called Probie or one of the many McNicknames by Tony, he missed being slapped on the head with a mutter of 'Elf Lord' from Gibbs, a punch on the arm from Abby, or the constant battle of trying to teach Ziva American idioms. He missed Palmer's horribly timed jokes, Ducky's long rambling lectures... he missed having orders barked at him by either Tony or Gibbs.

He missed his team. Although he could never get Gibbs and Ducky back, perhaps this was a chance to have even the slightest glimpse into what used to be. He pushed himself up from his desk, knowing that this time, he wouldn't let either of them go so easily.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

_A/N: The structure of the story will change somewhat now that the exposition is over. The pace will speed up, flashbacks will be much less frequent, and there will be likely be multiple point of views in each chapter. _

* * *

_**"And in the end the words won't matter,**_

_**'Cause in the end nothing stays the same,**_

_**And in the end dreams just scatter and fall like rain,**_

**_'Cause all we are we are." -All We Are, Matt Nathanson_**

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 03:32 - The Basement, Gibbs' House, Washington DC_

"Well," Tony said, lowering the phone as he ended the call with McGee. "That went better than I expected."

"Why have you not spoken to McGee in so long?" Ziva questioned, leaning against Gibbs' work bench and leveling an inquisitive stare at him. He sighed, looking away from her as he brushed a thumb over the dusty mason jar that held the dregs of his bourbon.

"People grow up, drift apart. It happens," he muttered, fatigue and intoxication tugging at his eyelids. "I never stayed close to any of my other partners."

"McGee wasn't just any other partner. You two were..." she trailed off, searching for the right word. "Brothers. Brothers do not just 'drift apart'."

"Yeah, well, things kind of went to shit after you left," he answered gruffly, really not in the mood to have Ziva psycho-analyze him. "Can we pick up this conversation in the morning? Or preferably never? It's late."

Ziva seemed tempted to argue, put after a moment she straightened and backed away from him, running a hand through her hair as she headed towards the staircase. "Fine. I'll take the couch."

"No," Tony said, following her to the foot of the stairs. "_I'm_ taking the couch."

"It's your home," she argued. "I'm the guest."

"It's Gibbs' home," he corrected, before narrowing his eyes at her. "You want me to take the bed because I'm older, don't you?" he headed up the stairs, purposely trying to put more of a pep into his step. When he arrived on the ground floor, he noticed a duffel bag by the door. Apparently Ziva had been planning to stay in the empty house for longer than just a day or two. "A night on the couch won't kill me, I'm not some feeble old man."

"Tony, your birthday has already passed, meaning you're fifty-four. I am forty-one. I will take the couch," she furrowed her brow before he had a chance to respond. "Wait a minute, this is not about me being the guest, this is about you wanting to _protect _me."

She promptly turned on her heel and headed up the stairs, and he saw her rolling her eyes in his peripheral vision. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation as she met him at the top of the stairs. "What can I say, chivalry isn't dead."

"I do not need protection, Tony. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Ziva said as she stepped into the dim living room. Tony shivered slightly. The house really was freezing. He crossed his arms across his chest in an attempt to warm himself as he headed towards Gibbs' gas fireplace.

"That's great, I can really see that, with the whole 'psycho murderer chasing after you' thing," he muttered as he crouched down in front of the fireplace, turning the ignition and hoping that the gas was included in the utility bills that he paid each month. The tell-tale hiss answered his question, and a second later there were bluish-orange flames crackling on the fake logs. "Listen, you're sleeping upstairs," he turned back to her, trying to convey the fact that this was not up for debate. "End of story."

She glared at him for a moment, seeming to want to argue, but after a moment she relented. "Fine," she said shortly as she sat down on the couch, crossing her legs Indian style underneath her. "Tony?"

"What?" he asked as he rose slowly, his knees and back protesting heavily from the position. All the blood rushed immediately to his head, his balance reduced to almost nothing after the bourbon and his usual dose of medication. He launched out a hand that landed on the mantel, using it to steady himself.

"The narcotics you and McGee mentioned?" she asked, almost hesitantly.

"What about them?" he asked stiffly, trying to blink away the blurriness on the edges of his vision. He really didn't want to have this conversation right now. If he didn't lay down soon, he was going to pass out, and the floor in the living room didn't look terribly comfortable.

"I... wasn't aware you were taking them."

"How could you be? We haven't seen each other in years," he couldn't help but let a hint of the bitterness he felt seep into his tone. "You made sure of that."

"Are you taking more than necessary?" she inquired, disregarding his comment. He glanced over his shoulder at her.

"I'm in pain," he evaded. "The pills help."

"You didn't answer my question."

"And I don't plan to."

"Isn't that an answer all on its own?" she countered.

He sighed heavily, backing away from the mantel and turning to face her. He was surprised to find her standing only a few inches away from him. He hadn't even sensed her moving from the couch. _I guess she's still a ninja. _

She looked up at him, and he wasn't sure what he saw in her deep brown eyes. Concern? Trepidation? Perhaps even guilt, but then again, it had been so many years since he'd last seen her... did he even know how to read her anymore?

"What happened to you, Tony?" she whispered. He stared at her, mind slowing to a full-stop.

"Life," he responded in a monotone. Ziva continued to look at him in that _way_ of hers, where it seemed like she was looking directly through him. Time had fogged many of his memories, so he wasn't sure if she had always looked at him like that, or if perhaps she had picked it up from Gibbs somewhere along the lines.

_Gibbs. _He couldn't help but think of his boss now, even though he spent much of his time trying not to think of him. _What would you say if you were here? _Catching him off guard, Ziva lifted a hand and reach out towards the scarred half of his face. Before her slim fingertips could reach his face, he grabbed her wrist, preventing her from touching him.

Human touch was not something he was used to. Other than the cordial handshakes that came with his position as director, he couldn't remember the last time he had voluntarily touched a human being, or another one had touched him for a non-professional reason. Probably the only enjoyable physical contact he had received was a hug from Abby the last time he had seen her, but that had been months ago.

No matter how he secretly ached for some kind of human contact, _no one_ touched his scar. Even he avoided touching it if he could, not enjoying the feel of the unnatural skin grafts that were in the place of his once smooth skin. He kept Ziva's wrist in an iron grip, perhaps a little tighter than necessary to restrain her from setting her fingertips on his scar.

A long moment passed between them, where a pin could have been heard dropping in the dilapidated house. Slowly, he released her wrist, bright red marks left behind from where he had held it. "Goodnight, Ziva," he said quietly as he brushed past her, heading to the couch. Without a backwards glance, he laid down on the familiar sofa that Gibbs had spent so many nights on, using his arm as a pillow. He waited to close his eyes until he heard Ziva's soft footsteps padding up the staircase.

He curled tighter into the sofa, the warmth from the fireplace only putting a mild damper on the chill in the living room. He considered getting up and trying to hunt down the throw blanket he had seen Gibbs sleep under, but the idea of moving now that he was settled in seemed decidedly unpleasant.

He inched his hand down to rest on the butt of his SIG, reassurance that if something were to happen, he would hopefully be able to keep Ziva and himself safe. He didn't like that the word _hopefully_ had worked its way into his thoughts. Eight years ago, he wouldn't have had a doubt in his mind about his abilities. Now, on the other hand...

He hadn't been in the field in over a year. Although he went to the firing range on occasion, he still wasn't half as good as he was when he was an active field agent. Not to mention that he wasn't entirely faithful of his emotional and mental stability. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the disparaging thoughts.

He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

* * *

McGee slid his house key into his pocket as he walked into the kitchen of the house he shared with Scottie. It was a nice, two-story modern home in one of the middle class suburbs of Denver. They had purchased it together last year shortly after he proposed to her. It was nice to have an actual house to come home to everyday, and not just an apartment. A house was more or less permanent, an apartment was temporary. He was reaching a point in his life where he wanted the first, and not the second.

"Scottie?" he called as he kicked off his shoes, straining his ears to hear some kind of sound. It was barely nine, and Scottie generally didn't go to sleep until well after midnight. He dropped his bag on the kitchen counter, then placed his keys in the key tray. He exited the kitchen and made his way into the living room, where he would generally find Scottie relaxed with a book, or maybe watching something on TV.

However, there was no sign of Scottie in the living room either. Maybe she was working late? _No, she would've texted me if she was working late tonight. _Well, that only left the bedroom or office. He trotted up the stairs, slightly disturbed by the lack of activity in the house. Senses sharpened by years in law enforcement were sending warning signals, and he had to suppress the urge to remove his weapon from its holster and search the house like he would on the job.

He headed quickly up the stairs as his unease grew. He called his fiancées name once more, but there was still wasn't any response. _You're just being paranoid, you're just being paranoid, _he repeated the mantra in his head in an attempt to calm himself. He placed his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it before stepping into the darkened bedroom. He flipped the light switch.

At first, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Their bedroom was as neat and orderly as always, the bed perfectly made, the pictures of him and Scottie, along with their families, sat on the dresser. The TV was turned off, and the curtains were closed. He walked in a few more feet, eyes sweeping the room.

Then he noticed what was neatly placed in front of the pillows that leaned against the headboard. Standing as a lone guard in the quiet room was a black pawn.

* * *

The sound of Tony's phone ringing roused him from his somewhat peaceful sleep. His body jerked slightly as he his eyes snapped open. For a moment, it could have been eight years earlier. Passing out on Gibbs' couch after a night in the basement, helping (or hindering) his boss with his boat. The call would have been from Ziva, McGee, or maybe Abby, asking where he was or telling him that something in their current case had changed.

But as his memories soon reminded him, it wasn't eight years ago. It was 2023, and Rockwell was calling him. He sighed, massaging his eyes with his knuckles for a moment before picking up the phone. It was 8:45. "DiNozzo," he answered robotically, his voice lowered from sleep.

"Director, you and I were supposed to have a meeting in MTAC with Agent Dorneget almost fifteen minutes ago," Rockwell said, launching in without hesitation. "Where are you?"

Tony sighed heavily, wishing that his replacement as the head of the MCRT wasn't such a stickler for punctuality. It was true, he and Rockwell had been expected to meet with Dorneget, who was now the lead agent of the Rota, Spain team, and receive an update on a series of killings there. However, right now, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

"You'll have to handle the meeting solo. I'm not coming in today," he told him, remembering his houseguest upstairs. Like he expected, this immediately aroused concern in Rockwell. Tony had never taken a day off in his time as director.

"Everything alright, Director?"

"Peachy. You're in charge while I'm gone," he told him, even though he knew that Rockwell was already perfectly aware of that. Not seeing any reason to continue the conversation, he promptly hung up the phone. That was one habit of Gibbs' that he still held to. Age had made him less and less of a talker.

He cracked his neck as he registered a stirring from the kitchen. _Ziva must be up. _Curious, he slowly rose from the couch, which, as Ziva had predicted, hadn't done him any favors. His back and shoulders were aching, and his neck was tight and uncomfortable. _Oh, the joys of middle age._

He padded into the kitchen, halting in the threshold as he observed Ziva staring at the cupboards above the counter, which held a total of four cans and then a jar of something that might have been jam at some point. She was dressed in a pair of gray sweats and a dark green tank top, with her dark and wild hair tied off to the side. Even when they worked together, he had rarely seen her like this. Right now, after so long, it almost felt like he was in a dream.

"We can have a three course meal of canned green beans, spoiled takeout food, and bourbon," he suggested mildly, expecting Ziva to jump. She didn't do so, and he had to remind himself that Ziva was still very much the Mossad ninja he had met in 2005. She didn't flinch as easily as the people he was used to being around.

"We'll need to shop. There is nothing in the cupboards that isn't expired, and I..." she wrinkled her nose. "I _really_ don't want to see what's in the fridge," she admitted. Tony seconded that motion. They were very lucky that it was particularly cool outside for that time of year, because he shuddered at the thought of what eight years expired food would smell like on a hot spring or summer day.

"There's a little diner nearby. We'll grab breakfast, then later once McGee gets here and you've got a bunch of meaty FBI agents watching your back, we'll shop," he decided. Ziva nodded, but then gestured to him dubiously.

"Perhaps you should change your clothes first," she suggested carefully. He looked down at himself. He was still wearing his suit, the same one he had put on yesterday morning. He did look rather rumpled, and upon experimentally sniffing himself, he realized that a shower was definitely in order.

"Point. I think I've got a spare pair of clothes floating around here somewhere from one of the times I crashed here. I'll be back and better smelling in fifteen minutes or so," he said before heading out of the kitchen and trotting up the stairs, the idea of hot water pounding on his back sounding very appealing.

Just as promised, fifteen minutes later, Tony was pulling up a pair of pants he hadn't worn since he was forty-four. He was slightly concerned about how loose they seemed - had he really lost that much weight? The shirt was loose on his torso and tight around his forearms and shoulders, since he had a much more strenuous and frequent workout routine than he had when he was younger.

He made his way down the stairs, shaking out his damp hair like a wet dog in an attempt to have it somewhat dry before heading out into the unusually cold April morning. When he arrived downstairs, Ziva was sitting on the couch, the box of rules that he had left in the basement held in her hands, her head bent as she sifted through it.

"Hey," he said quietly, and she lifted her head to look at him.

"Hello," she responded, placing one of the folded up rules back in the box and slowly closing it. She stood up and placed the box on the coffee table, straightening the blouse she had put on in his absence.

"Find what you're looking for?" he asked her as he made his way to the door.

"No," she replied honestly. He stooped down to slide on his shoes, and she mirrored him. Her dark eyes were distant, and he would've given almost anything to know what was on her mind at that moment.

He opened the front door, letting the cold air rush in and elicit a shiver from him. He stepped out of the house, but Ziva roughly grabbed his shoulder, stopping his progress. He flinched away from the contact and turned to her, but before he could ask what she was doing, he saw the look in her eye.

"Tony," she choked, before nodding towards the ground. He followed her line of sight to the ground in front of the door. Sitting there was a human finger, adorned with an ornate ring, wrapped around a black pawn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

_**"Without habitation, you'll never find a soul inside**_

_**No life, but nothing's died **_

_**No lights, but quite the show**_

_**Just as long as no one ever knows." -Paper Airplanes (Makeshift Wings) by AFI**_

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 07:15 - Senior Agent's Office, FBI Field Office, Denver Colorado_

McGee's body jerked violently as he bolted up in his chair, taking a moment to realize that over the course of the night, he had passed out at his desk. He checked the clock and his computer, and realized much to his horror that he'd been out for the past four hours. "Damn it," he whispered, leaning his forehead on his fist.

After he had found the pawn the night before, he had immediately called in a kidnapping to the FBI. Before going home, he had done extra research on The Pink Ribbon Strangler, and particularly his modus operandi - mainly his affinity of chess pieces. He was connected to Ziva, and he could only assume that somehow, the killer had figured that out.

So now, Scottie was gone. His team, all wanting to be there for him and wanting to help find her, had come into the office late that night. Since the kidnapping was connected to a serial murder, it was in the FBI's jurisdiction. They passed off their arson investigation to the arson division of the Denver PD so they could focus on finding Scottie.

The thing that made the least sense was the fact that the Pink Ribbon Strangler was based out of Annapolis. Why was he in Denver now? Then again, he could have been reading too much into the chess angle, but he had been taught many years ago not to believe in coincidences.

Ziva is targeted by the Pink Ribbon Strangler. She meets up with Tony at Gibbs' house, they call him for help. Scottie goes missing.

It was all connected. _They _were all connected. However, he was going to have to call his former teammates and tell them that he wouldn't be able to come to DC and head the investigation there. He wasn't leaving Denver until he found his fiancée. A small voice in the back of his head asked what he would do if he didn't find her, but he quickly crushed that thought. He _would_ find her.

He sighed heavily, deciding that he would call Tony and Ziva before doing anything else. His team would have notified him if anything pertinent had been found since he dozed off. He suspected that they had purposely allowed him to sleep, knowing how worn down he was.

He dialed Tony's cell number, which he had saved to his phone the night before. He picked up after only two rings. "McGee?"

"Tony," he greeted, his voice hoarser than he thought it would be. "We need to talk."

"Yeah, yeah we do," he said, his voice sounding strained. He thought he heard and engine in the background, so he assumed Tony was driving somewhere. "Is there any word yet on whether you can get down here, because it looks like this off-the-books NCIS-FBI thing is going _on_ the books."

"What do you mean?"

"The Strangler left Ziva and I a present this morning," he explained. "Somehow, he must know about her past, her NCIS connections. He must have either followed her to Gibbs' house, or known that she would go there."

"Present?" McGee echoed worriedly. "Not a body?"

"No, a finger," Tony responded. "A ring finger wrapped around a black pawn. We're heading to NCIS now so my forensics guy can try and get an ID off of it." _A ring finger. No, it can't be! _his stomach did an involuntary flip, and he felt as though the world was spinning. _I don't believe in coincidences. _

"Is it... a female finger?" he asked, his question barely audible. He closed his eyes. _Please, God, say no..._

"I think so, it's slender, no hair, long fingernail," he replied.

"Definitely female," he heard Ziva say from nearby.

"Tony," he said quietly. "I need you to call me as soon as you get an ID on that finger."

"We'll keep you updated. You talk to Fornell and the wife-to-be yet?" Tony asked.

"No..." he trailed off. "When I went home last night, Scottie was gone, and there was a black pawn sitting on our bed." Silence from the other end. If it hadn't been for the thrum of the car engine in the background, McGee would have thought that he had been hung up on.

"Tim..."

"Just call me when you get the ID," he said quickly, hitting the end button a little harder than necessary. He dropped his cell with a loud thump on the surface of his desk, his hands shaking violently. He balled his hands into fists, trying to steady his breathing, trying to calm his wildly beating heart.

Nine years ago, his father died of brain cancer. Two months later, Ducky passed away. Roughly a year after that, Gibbs died, Ziva left, and Tony might as well have gone with her. Two years after that, his grandmother passed. By the time he made the decision to leave DC, all he had left was his sister and Abby, and he left them behind when he headed to Denver.

When he had taken the position as senior field agent here, he had essentially been alone. Alone, and if he was being honest with himself, kind of lost. It seemed like he was just wandering around, trying to find the same kind of meaning he had with his first team back at NCIS.

His new team had helped him gain some of that meaning back, but Scottie had been the light at the end of the tunnel, the person that finally made him feel _right_, made him feel complete. He had always considered himself to an optimistic, glass-half-full type of person. He couldn't really think of a part of his life where he had been depressed. However, he also couldn't think of a time in his life where he'd been particularly happy, either.

Now, he was happy, happier than he'd ever thought possible. Then, in the blink of an eye, his other half had been taken away from him. Now, with this new development in DC, his panic was growing exponentially. If that finger came back as belonging to Scottie... he shuddered. _He could be out there right now, hurting her, doing unimaginable things to her... you should have been protecting her!_

He closed his eyes, trying to erase the burning sensation in the corners of his eyes. He had to get it together. He had to find her. He slowly and methodically organized his thoughts, trying to bring some kind of order to the chaos that his mind had become. _Get it together, McGee, _a voice said in the back of his head, and he'd be lying to himself if he said that it didn't sound like Gibbs.

He stood up out of his seat, blinking at the head rush that hit him. He needed to talk to his team, see if they had found anything. Before he had fallen asleep the night before, Josh, Kara, and Dom had been trying to reconstruct Scottie's day from the last time anyone spoke to her - which was when he had called her during his lunch break.

He walked slowly out into the squad room, half-dreading what his team might have discovered. He stopped just as he reached the divider that separated his team from the rest of the office, leaning on it as he observed his team members, who were so observed in their work that they didn't even notice his presence behind him.

Josh was in front of the large flat screen they had in the office, watching what appeared to be traffic cam footage with a critical eye, pausing every several seconds as he searched the license plates of the scores of passing cars. Kara was pouring over something on her desk, thin brows furrowed in concentration, the end of a pencil firmly fixed between her two teeth. Dom was on the phone with someone, demanding rather roughly for the flight manifests from Denver to Washington for the past twenty-four hours.

He cleared his throat, catching the attention of his team. "Boss!" Josh said, turning away from the screen. "You're awake."

"Any particular reason one of you didn't wake me?" McGee asked, not unkindly, but still somewhat upset that his team had decided to continue the investigation without him.

"Well, we went in to check on you about an hour ago, and we tried to wake you up, but, well..." Kara motioned at him somewhat helplessly. "You just kept sleeping. We thought of dumping a bucket of cold water on you, but we figured you could use a little rest after the night you've had."

"We also decided that you would barely be able to function today if you were to go without sleep during the night. We were only looking out for your best interest," Dominic said after promptly hanging up his phone and adjusting his thick glasses as he looked up at him. He noted with some pride that his team was consistently using 'we', so as not to throw any particular person under the bus.

Just like he taught them.

"It's alright guys, just keep me updated in the future," he said, giving them the best smile he could manage under the current circumstances. "So, what do we have?"

"We've been trying to reconstruct Scottie's day from the point where you last talked to her, to try and find the specific moment where she was kidnapped," Josh said, returning to the flat screen, remote control in hand. "Judging by the traffic cam outside of the home you two share, Scottie left the apartment roughly an hour and a half after you got off the phone with her. However, judging by her phone records, she received another call from you one hour after the call you made during your lunch break," he explained.

"No," McGee argued. "I didn't call her again, you all know that. We left to head to one of the arson sites as soon as I was back from lunch."

"We know, boss," Kara said. "So we looked deeper."

"Upon further examination, I managed to uncover that the call that was supposedly from your cell was actually from an encrypted number disguised to appear as your cell phone number on a caller ID," Dom shared, calculating eyes roaming over the data on his computer screen. "I managed to trace the area of the call, but the encryption level was too advanced for me to pinpoint it any further."

"What's the general area?" McGee asked, clutching onto the hope that they had very least found this lead, that Scottie hadn't disappeared without a trace.

"Washington DC," Kara told him quietly. All of them knew the significance the city held for him, having grown up in Bethesda and worked for most of his adult life in DC. McGee sucked in a breath. It was seeming more and more likely by the second that the finger Tony and Ziva had discovered was his fiancée's.

"Keep going," was all he managed to mutter, trying to maintain his composure in front of his team. He looked to Josh next. "Any sign of coercion on the traffic cam? Was she being followed?"

"No, it doesn't seem like it," his senior field agent replied. "We lost track of her vehicle, but the only thing of relevance in the direction she was heading was the airport, so we checked the flight manifests for her name. She booked a one way from Denver to DC, no layovers. According to the booking clerk there, she paid all in cash and upfront. Cost almost two grand, even though she took coach."

"And after the flight?" he asked.

"The trail unfortunately goes cold from there, though an interview with employees at nearby car rental facilities or taxi drivers who picked up fares from the airport would likely prove useful," Dominic said in his usual, eloquent way. The young agent spoke like a scientist, or more specifically, a little bit like Ducky without the Scottish accent.

"That's a good idea, Dom," McGee said, tapping his fingers on the divider, mind struggling with what to do next. "Did you try to triangulate her cell again?" That had been the first thing they had tried to do last night, but if Scottie had been on a flight at the time, her phone would have turned off.

"I'll do so right now," he replied, making a few quick key strokes on his computer. There was a pause, and Kara and Josh inched closer, anxious as well to know the result. McGee peered over Dom's shoulder, both surprised and unsurprised by the results.

"Meridian Hill Park, Washington DC," McGee read. "Why would she be there?" he asked, more to himself than anyone. He quickly withdrew his cell phone and hit Scottie's speed dial number. She would never do something like this, just abandon him and leave nothing but a black pawn behind. It all came back to the mysterious call she had received from someone masquerading as him.

The phone continued ringing until it went to voice mail. No answer. He hung up, resisting the urge to turn his phone to dust in his hand. Taking a calming breath, he attempted to center himself. "Isles, call the park rangers at Meridian, have them search the entire premises for her. I want updates every fifteen minutes until they've scoured every inch of that place," he growled, and his team shrank back somewhat, unused to seeing him like this.

His phone rang in his hand, and when he looked down and saw Anthony DiNozzo pop up on his screen, he was filled with dread. He answered, a tremor in his voice. "Is it hers?"

* * *

Tony and Ziva stepped out of his vehicle, their feet landing on the pavement of the Naval Yard parking garage. Ziva looked around, taking in the site of the place that used to be a home for her. "It's been a long time," she said quietly, as if she was talking to an old friend.

"Not that the nostalgia isn't priceless or anything, but," Tony held up the plastic bag that held the finger and pawn. "Pressing matters at hand."

"Right, of course," she said, making her way determinedly to the front gates of NCIS. Tony didn't need to flash his ID, as he was instantly recognized as the director. They both nodded reverently to him, while eyeing Ziva with some curiosity, as they let them through the gates.

Once they were inside the building, Tony placed his SIG on the conveyer belt as he stepped through the security checkpoint. Ziva rolled her eyes. "This, I didn't miss," she complained as she removed her own weapon from it's holster concealed within her jacket. She then stooped down and lifted up her pant leg, revealing a holster holding a small .32 revolver. Ziva tossed it onto the conveyer belt. Finally, she withdrew her knife, adding it to the small armory. The security guard merely lifted an eyebrow.

"The Mossad never completely goes away, huh?" Tony asked as she followed him through the metal detector, retrieving her weapons on the other side and putting them back in their proper places.

"Not completely, no," she answered as she strode ahead of him to the elevator. He entered in after her and pressed the button for the lab, knowing that Tammy was the first person to see about the disembodied finger. She'd have them an ID in no time flat, and they could give McGee a definitive answer about whether it was his fiancée's or not.

The two of them, standing their in the elevator, it felt so _natural_. So familiar. It was a blast back to the past, back to happier days. He shook his head, trying to keep his mind on the present. Ziva was being chased by a dangerous psychopath. It was growing more and more likely that McGee's wife-to-be had been kidnapped and injured. Not to mention the fact that this son-of-a-bitch somehow knew about Ziva's past. That was the only way he could've thought to put the 'present' on Gibbs' doorstep.

"Does Abby still work in the lab?" Ziva asked, a slight hint of hopefulness in her voice.

"No. After I became director, she retired from NCIS and took up a gig teaching criminology at Georgetown. Her lab assistant, Tamera Shields, is our new lab rat," he explained.

"Assistant? Abby hates assistants. Understandably, after Chip..."

"It took a lot of convincing, but she was running herself into the ground. The agency's expanded a lot over the years, and it just didn't make any sense to only have one forensic scientist. So, after a hiring process that took a hell of a lot longer than it should have, she hired Tammy in 2020," he glanced at Ziva, a smirk threatening to form on his lips. "We triple checked. She doesn't have any intentions of framing me for murder."

"You like her?" Ziva asked curiously. The elevator doors binged open, and Tony genuinely smiled now, as they headed into the brightly lit forensics lab.

"Well... it's hard _not_ to like Tammy."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_A/N: Okay, firstly, writing this chapter was like trying to run out into a thunderstorm and dodge rain. So, it's pretty rough around the edges, definitely not my favorite, but I managed to churn it out finally. Secondly, this is still a possible future canon, and the events of "Chasing Ghosts", "Berlin", and "Revenge" all happened in this timeline. However, if Tony and Ziva decide that rule twelve is no longer important before the end of season ten, this will be AU._

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS, and make no profit from this story._

* * *

**_"Bring me home in a blinding dream, _**

**_Through the secrets that I have seen _**

**_Wash the sorrow from off my skin _**

**_And show me how to be whole again." -Castle of Glass, Linkin Park_**

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 9:30, NCIS Forensics Lab, Naval Yard, Washington DC_

"Director DiNozzo!" Tammy exclaimed, jumping up from her seat in front of her computer and lifting a hand in salute, accompanied by a wide smile. "Morning, boss! What do you have for me?" she asked, pale blue eyes immediately flying to the evidence bag in his hand. "Is that a disembodied finger I see?"

He really did like Tammy. She was one of the only people that could put a smile on his face these days. She reminded him of a young Abby in a way.

"Yep," Tony affirmed, offering her the bag. "And a black pawn, but the ID on the finger's priority number one right now."

"Your wish is my command," she responded, snatching the bag from him and brushing past him, heading out of her office and into her lab, her bright red curls bouncing along with her. She eyed Ziva with a sly smile as she did so. "Who's your friend, director?"

"Ziva David," Ziva answered for herself as they followed Tammy to her lab equipment. Tammy turned around in a whirl, eyes widening comically in surprise. Oh God. Abby must have told Tammy about Ziva.

"_The _Ziva David?" she burst out. "But Abby said you were..." she trailed off, glancing nervously at Tony.

"Tam," he said, trying to convey to her without words that this was not the time or the place for that particular conversation. "Focus."

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized quickly, sliding on a pair of white latex gloves. Ziva looked at him for a long moment, probably wondering why her name caused such shock. He returned her gaze, but said nothing.

"Well, I can tell just by looking at it that it's female, probably between the age of twenty five and thirty five. Whoever gave her that ring's got good taste in jewelry," she said, carefully sliding the ring off. "Ten karat gold, genuine diamonds... very nice."

"ID, Tammy," Tony reminded her, hovering behind the forensic scientist. Ziva was standing next to him, eyes roaming over the lab. He could tell by the distant look in the Israeli's eyes that she was no doubt lost in the memories they had all shared in Abby's lab, both good and bad.

"On it," she said, getting an imprint of the finger of the disembodied digit. Peeling off the mark, she slid it into the scanner that would cross-check it against all records.

"We think we're looking for a civilian in the Denver metropolitan area," Tony informed her, and Tammy nodded. It was amazing how far forensics had come in the past decade. Even in his time as a cop, there had been amazing leaps and bounds when it came to identification and tracking of criminals.

"Denver?" Tammy asked, raising an eyebrow at him as the search was run, faces flashing by the second on her computer. "Mind if I ask what this is about?"

"Let's just leave it at 'long story' for now," Tony said, glancing at Ziva out of the corner of his eye. Tammy nodded slowly, holding up her hands.

"No problem, I get it," abruptly, she looked past the two of them. "Hey, Jimmy!"

Tony and Ziva turned simultaneously, coming face to face with Jimmy Palmer. For Tony, it was nothing special, he generally saw Palmer almost every day, but for Ziva, she was reuniting with another person that she had abandoned when she had fled DC eight years prior.

"Z-Ziva?" Palmer stammered, staring at her in complete shock. Ziva shuffled uncomfortably next to him. Palmer hadn't changed much in the past few years. He still had the oval Harry Potter-esque glasses, the curly brown hair, and perpetual expression of flustered confusion. He just had a few more wrinkles, really. Palmer hadn't changed like the rest of them. Tony suspected that his fulfilling home life had a hand in that. Pity that he couldn't follow the medical examiner's example.

"Jimmy," she greeted, giving him a smile that didn't even pretend to reach her eyes. "It's good to see you."

Palmer looked back and forth between him and Ziva, mouth hanging open in a comical fashion. "Where have you been?" he asked abruptly, in his classic fashion. "It's been eight years since any of us have seen you!" Tony gave the younger man an appraising look. Was Palmer actually getting angry? "We all thought you were _dead_!"

Oh. Okay, Palmer _was_ mad. It was understandable. The inebriation of last night paired with both his blissful relief at seeing her again and his innate need to protect her had prevented him from lashing out at her, but Palmer had none of those factors affecting him at the moment.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," Ziva said quietly, lowering her head. "But I had my reasons." Palme stared at her for a long moment, warring emotions battling behind his circular spectacles. A second later, he darted forward and pulled Ziva into a tight hug, which, after she recovered from her surprise, she returned.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he said, gripping her tightly. He looked at Tony and Tammy over Ziva's shoulder in the form of a silent question. Before Tony had a chance to explain to Palmer what was happening, a loud beeping came from Tammy's computer. The redhead quickly returned to the monitor, eyes scanning over the results.

"Does the name Scottie Corrigan ring any bells?"

* * *

"Is it hers?"

"I'm sorry, McGee, it's Scottie's. I don't know what to say," Tony said on the other end, his voice regretful. McGee closed his eyes for a long moment, rage and sorrow battling in his mind and heart. He gritted his teeth and clenched his free hand hard, sucking in a rough breath. _That son-of-a-bitch took her. He took her, and he cut her finger off, and God knows what else..._

"I will be in DC in by four o'clock your time," McGee ground out. "Ziva's been threatened, and since the... the _finger_ was found on the doorstep of a house that belongs to you, that makes it an official threat against an NCIS agent. I'll call Fornell, demand that I lead the investigation, and we work in cooperation with you. Expect a meeting with him in MTAC within the hour, after I'm done speaking to him."

There was a short pause on the other end. "You're the boss."

"I want a protective detail on both of you by the time I get there. Do you have a CSIU team processing Gibbs' house?" he asked, and he noticed that his team was intently listening to his end of the conversation, brows all creased with worry.

"No. I didn't want to do anything until we had an ID."

"Get a team there, process every inch of the outdoors, check every camera within a fifteen mile radius. If anything changes, call me," he said. He realized with a jolt that he was essentially _ordering_ Tony around, but he had become so used to being in command that it came naturally, added in with the fact that when things went wrong, much like his former teammate, he desired control.

Scottie was gone. Ziva and Tony were at risk. The mission? Find Scottie and protect his friends. Failure was not an option, that was something that had been ingrained into his mind during his time learning from Gibbs. Though, somewhat ironically, the rule that fit this situation best was one of Tony's - _"DiNozzo Rule #1: I don't sit on the sidelines while my people are in danger."_

"Alright," Tony said, not seeming bothered by the instructions. "Call me when you've landed. We'll come pick you up. Until then, I'll keep you updated." Just as McGee was about to hang up, Tony stopped him. "Tim? I'm sorry," he told him in a low voice, and McGee could tell he was sincere.

"Rule Six, Tony," was all McGee said before he hit the 'end' button. He sighed, leaning heavily on the divider next to Dom's desk. His team all stared at him silently, waiting for an explanation of some variety.

"Rule Six," Dom mused, the first to speak. "'Make your trust hard to gain and easy to lose'," he recited dutifully. McGee shook his head at the young man.

"Not my rule number six, Dom. Gibbs'," he told him, walking around the barrier and into the center of the bullpen. His team understood the reference - over the past four years, he had told them about his first team. Mostly about Abby, Gibbs, Ducky and Palmer. Thinking of Ziva just hurt too much, the fear of what might have happened to her mixing with the anger of abandonment. And Tony... he didn't feel like regaling his team with tales of the smug senior field agent who teased him relentlessly, even if he had looked at the man as an older brother. "'Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness'."

"Boss..." Kara trailed off, pursing her lips with worry. He looked over at the only female member of his team. It was understandable that she was likely as affected by Scottie's kidnapping as he was. After all, the young forensic psychologist was the one who had introduced him to his wife-to-be, being her best friend.

"An index finger wrapped around a black pawn was found on the front doorstep of my old boss' house, which just so happens to be owned by the current director of NCIS. They ran the ID," he swallowed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "It's Scottie's."

The air in the room seemed thick, heavy like fog - like it was choking him. He needed to get out of there, he had to move. _I have to get to DC._

"You're going to DC to get her back, I take it?" Josh asked, lifting an eyebrow at him. McGee nodded dimly in response, staring down at his hands. "I've always said that you're a superhero."

"I'm no hero," he whispered, almost too quietly to hear. "If I was a hero, I wouldn't have let anyone take her in the first place."

"Strictly speaking, there is no way you could have expected Scottie's kidnapping," Dominic reasoned.

"If I would've been home..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm calling Fornell," he said as he stalked out of the bullpen, making his way to his office. This wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to, and he expected there would be a shouting match before he managed to get Tobias to agree to open an investigation built off of one conflict of interest after another.

But he would get him to agree. He had to.

* * *

Tony and Ziva sat in the director's office, both of them intensely uncomfortable. Ziva sat on the loveseat, glancing between the window and her hands. Tony sat at his desk, making the appropriate calls. A CSIU team was currently scouring every inch of the outside of Gibbs' house, and he had Feller checking every traffic cam anywhere even relatively close to the lazy suburb that his old boss had lived in.

Tony hadn't formally informed his team of their investigation into the serial killings, and he didn't plan to until Fornell had officially told him that they were working in jurisdiction with NCIS. He had given Feller enough vague information to get by on, but that was all.

Tony was now looking through the case files that he had requested from Annapolis PD, trying to focus on the information in front of him rather than his long-lost teammate sitting roughly ten feet away from him. Ziva obviously had no need to read over the case files, as she had already memorized them. The years that had passed had done nothing to her steel trap of a memory.

The crime scene photos were disturbing, even for a homicide veteran like himself. There was something so starkly _clinical _about them. The bodies had been cleaned meticulously, treated so delicately and carefully after the soul inside had passed on, in spite of their brutal treatment beforehand. The contrast was unsettling. It reminded him of Jonas Cobb, the Port-to-Port Killer they had faced off with in 2011.

"You think there's any chance that the Annapolis ME would exhume the bodies and let Palmer take a look at them?" he asked. Ziva sighed, resting her chin on her hand.

"The first two bodies, no. They've been buried already. However, the recent victims are still in the morgue at the Annapolis precinct. If I call and speak to Dr. Roberts, the ME, I may be able to get them here. However, I will not be able to do anything until the investigation is made official," she said.

"McFBI should be handling that as we speak," he replied, restlessly. Surprisingly, Ziva smiled slightly at this, something he hadn't really seen from her since her appearance in the basement the night before. He cocked his head at her. "What?"

"It's been a long time since I heard one of the McNicknames," she explained, meeting his eyes. "It is... nostalgic."

"Makes you think of the good old days," Tony replied, a modicum of bitterness working its way into his voice. He leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on one of his hands.

"Yes," was the reserved response he received. The naturalness that had briefly possessed the two of them the night before had, for the moment, disappeared. They were tense, awkward. There were too many talks that they needed to have, and neither of them wanted to face the myriad of skeletons hiding in their shared closet. He shuddered at the conversations that had the possibility of coming.

_"Say, Ziva, any particular reason you abandoned us right after I confessed my love for you?"_

However, there was no time for that now. His phone rang on his desk, and he quickly picked up. "DiNozzo," he answered automatically.

"Director," he heard Rockwell's voice on the other end. "You're wanted in MTAC. It's Director Fornell."

"Tell him we're coming," he replied, about to hang up the phone. Ziva was already standing up, guessing at the subject of the phone call.

"We, sir?" Rockwell asked before Tony had a chance to punch the end button. He suppressed a sigh.

"It looks like we may be working a joint investigation surrounding a recent series of serial killings with the FBI, and I've brought in a consult to catch us up," he explained, his eyes darting sideways to Ziva, who was waiting impatiently for him to end the call. "I'll tell you more after I talk to Fornell."

A pause on the other end. "Alright. Good luck, director." With that, the conversation was over, and he and Ziva were making their way out of his office.

"The head of the MCRT, I'm guessing?" Ziva inquired as they passed his secretary Lydia, who gave them a respectful nod as they passed. "Do you trust him?" she asked.

"I do," he responded truthfully. He couldn't claim to be particularly close to Rockwell, Logan, Feller, and the team's probationary agent Roland Kelly, who had been taken on once Rockwell had assumed control of the team when Tony had been promoted to the position of director. "But I'm keeping this hush-hush until I have the confirmation from Fornell that we'll be working with the FBI on this. I'm not jumping the gun."

"You are being cautious," Ziva observed as Tony leaned down to allow the optic scanner to scan his eyes, allowing himself and Ziva access into MTAC.

"And?" he asked, stepping through the door and into the darkened room.

"That isn't like you," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. Tony glanced back at her before heading towards the main screen of the major threat assessment center.

"No offense, sweet cheeks," he said, meeting her eyes fleetingly. "But do you really know what I'm like anymore?" She froze in her tracks as he said this, and he turned away from her and made his way to stand in the center of the floor, facing the middle screen directly.

There was a delay before he heard Ziva's footsteps behind him. Perhaps he'd been cruel, using the once-affectionate nickname as a poisoned barb, but she needed to understand that he wasn't who he was when she left. He was trying to put his life back together, piece by piece, but he wasn't ever again going to be Tony DiNozzo, the class clown. Tony DiNozzo, the wild card.

Once Ziva was standing reluctantly at his side, he motioned to the MTAC tech to connect the feed. A moment later, FBI Director Tobias Fornell's face was displayed on the large screen, looking about as pleasant as he ever did.

"Goddamnit, DiNutso," he said as soon as he saw the two of them, mispronouncing his name as per usual. "I always knew you'd take after Gibbs and end up being a pain in my ass."

Tony smiled blandly. "Nice to see you too, Tobias."

* * *

_A/N: Reviews make the world go 'round!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_A/N: Wow, I did not mean for it to take so long to get this chapter out! But what can I say, when writer's block hits, it hits like a boot to the head. Also, so long as Fornell doesn't actually die next season and the team gets back together (which we all know they will) this could still be plausible for the future... no AU yet!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

_**"It's been a long time coming since I've seen your face**_

_**I've been everywhere and back trying to replace**_

_**Everything that I had, 'til my feet went numb**_

_**Praying like a fool that's been on the run." -Feel Again, One Republic**_

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 11:00, Major Threat Assessment Center, Naval Yard, Washington DC_

"So, I get a call from McGee to start off my morning," Fornell began in a disgruntled tone. "Tells me that he's interested in an ongoing investigation that's been happening in Annapolis. Pink Ribbon Strangler." He looked pointedly at Ziva. "I'm _sure_ you've heard of the bastard. He then tells me that this guy's made threats against an ex-Mossad-slash-ex-NCIS agent, not to mention the director of NCIS himself. Then, as the cherry on top, his girl's been kidnapped. And what does he want from me, you ask?"

Tony glanced at his watch. "Anytime now, Tobias."

"He wants me to let him _take the lead _on the case. But wait, there's more! He wants me to let him work in jurisdiction with NCIS! Music to my goddamn ears!" Fornell leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and letting out a deep sigh.

"I'm waiting for the part where you tell me why you're saying yes," Tony said dryly.

"If it was anyone other than McGee asking, I'd have kicked their ass back to the Quantico. He's one of my best men, and once Roarke retires he's next in line for assistant director. Not to mention the fact that I'd have Gibbs' ghost following me around and slapping the back of my head for all eternity if I didn't. I'm putting this on you two not to screw this up. I know any chance of objectivity is out the window-"

"...ye of little faith..." Tony muttered.

"-but I'm hoping you can still catch the son-of-a-bitch with the help of the extra motivation," he finished, though he looked as though he was heartily displeased with the turn of events.

"Thank you," Tony told him honestly. If Fornell had thrown up a roadblock by either refusing to work with NCIS or refusing to let McGee head the operation, he and Ziva would have had to investigate off the books, without using NCIS or FBI resources. Most likely, they wouldn't have gotten terribly far. "We'll keep the channels of communication open. Ziva can be our liaison with the Annapolis PD-"

"Uh-uh," Fornell cut him off. "No. David's sitting on the sidelines for this one, DiNozzo. FBI'll handle the protection detail - I'm sticking her in a safe house with enough guards to sink a battle ship. From what McGee told me, this guy is a match for even her."

"Director," Ziva said respectfully, though Tony could see her shoulders tense at the idea of having to sit the investigation out. "I'm am not so much worried about my own safety as I am concerned for McGee's fiancée, and with my knowledge of the case I see no reason to couch me."

"Bench," he corrected quietly. "You get benched, you don't get couched."

"Whatever," she said snappishly.

"Other than the fact the psycho is targeting you, it's because you're consulting with the Annapolis PD, who're getting relieved of this case as soon as McGee gets here and I send a team of agents down there to work with him. This is an FBI and NCIS matter now."

Ziva looked positively livid. He couldn't picture her acquiescing and letting herself be put in a metaphorical plastic bubble while he and McGee searched for the Strangler. That wasn't her style. Technically, Fornell was right, but even if they tried to put Ziva in a safe house, she would either refuse outright or sneak out of it.

An idea occurred to Tony, insane, perfect, and spontaneous. Before it even had wholly formed in his mind, his mouth decided to take charge. "Well, Tobias, since Ziva's being temporarily reinstated as an NCIS agent, she is no longer associated with Annapolis PD. So, that won't be a problem."

He received blank stares from both Fornell and Ziva. What could he say? He was feeling a little impulsive today.

"Are you serious, DiNutso?"

"When aren't I?" he replied. He received a Gibbs-worthy glare from Fornell for a solid ten seconds before the FBI director spoke again.

"Anything else I can get you? Let Sciuto join the party, too? Drag Vance down from the hill, dig up Ducky and Gibbs' graves so it can be one big team reunion?"

Tony winced visibly, though he didn't really mean to. If anyone else had said something like that, he probably would have landed a right hook across his jaw, but he was aware that everyone wasn't as sensitive to the subject of his old boss as he was. He also couldn't help but remember the eulogy that Fornell gave at Gibbs' funeral, along with the tears Tony could've sworn he saw threatening to spill from the cantankerous FBI agent's eyes.

"I'm just asking you to trust me, Tobias. That's all," Tony told him, squaring his shoulders. Fornell let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine, fine. But if you three screw this up, ghosts or no ghosts, there's going to be hell to pay for all involved. The higher ups will have our heads," Fornell warned, and Tony nodded in agreement.

"Oh, I'm aware. I'm keeping Vance clear of this if I can. He generally lets me do my own thing, but once he gets wind of this he might try to shut it down," he said. Hopefully he'd be able to keep the SecNav out of NCIS' affairs until the investigation was on its feet, but that would be more dependent on luck than anything else.

"I'm crossing all my fingers and my toes," Fornell said, voice thick with sarcasm. "If that's all, DiNutso..." He looked at him seriously. "You sure you three can pull this off?"

"As sure as I am that you'll never pronounce my name correctly," Tony responded evenly. That earned him what might have been a smirk from Fornell. "Have a nice day, director." He motioned to the MTAC technician to cut the feed by drawing a finger across his throat, and a second later, the screen went black.

"You are reinstating me as an NCIS agent," she repeated. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Temporarily," he reminded her. "This is already a jurisdictional SNAFU, I don't need Annapolis PD involved to make the spaghetti plate bigger. Come on," he nodded towards the door, and Ziva tailed him out of MTAC and they made their way back to his office. Once inside, he yanked open his desk drawer, searching in the back for what he knew would be there. A moment later, he pulled out Ziva's SIG Sauer and her badge, placing them carefully on the desk, facing her. When she had left eight years prior, she had done so without taking any of her possessions from her desk.

"You kept them." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She carefully picked up her SIG, testing its feel in her hand. "And cleaned my weapon, as well."

She was right, of course. On days that he felt especially masochistic, or he needed to clear his head, he would remove his ex-partner's firearm from his desk and clean it meticulously until it gleamed. It calmed him and made him feel sick at the same time. "Yes. Now take it, and I want you to get to work on exhuming the bodies from Annapolis so Palmer can have a look at them. I've got to go brief my team on this whole disaster. Keep me updated."

It was odd, ordering around Ziva. He had never been able to get her to do much of anything he told her to do when they were working together, but as was being drilled into both of their heads over and over again, things had changed. She was a temporary NCIS agent standing on ground that was anything but solid, and he was the director of a federal agency. In other words - rank, rank, rank.

Ziva didn't seem to be bothered by it. She took her SIG and buckled the holster to her belt, then clipped the badge along side it. She looked at him for a long moment, as though she had something to say, but ultimately closed her mouth, apparently thinking better of it. With a nod, she exited his office, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

* * *

McGee's flight left in forty minutes, and he had all of his things gathered in two suitcases. All he packed were his clothes and his personal laptop. He wasn't going to have time for anything else once he was in DC. He didn't want any distractions. He was going to find Scottie if it killed him.

However, as he stepped out of the front door of his house, dodging the lingering crime scene techs that were still scouring his and Scottie's home, he crashed headlong into one of his team members. He stumbled, dropping one of his suitcases as he launched out an arm to catch a surprised Agent Isles.

"Isles," he said as he guided the two of them off of his front steps and onto the sidewalk in front of his house. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." she gestured towards her Mercury, which was parked between his and once of the CSIU vans. "I figured you could use a ride to the airport." He narrowed his eyes at her hesitation. First of all, his car was in complete working order, so he didn't need a ride to the airport, a fact that both of them were completely aware of. Secondly, Kara had that look in her eyes that she always did when she desperately, desperately needed to say something, but didn't know how. For a psychologist, she was remarkably bad at expressing her own feelings. Communication wasn't her strong suit.

Maybe that was why she reminded him of Tony, sometimes.

"Right," he said slowly, searching her hazel eyes. "Let's get going, then."

"Good. Great." Kara nodded in something akin to gratefulness as they made their way towards her car, his bags in tow. It looks like he had the twenty minute ride to the airport to find out what was on his agent's mind.

Then he saw her packed suitcases in the back of the car. "Planning on going somewhere, Isles?" he asked dryly, arching an eyebrow at her. He should've expected this, in retrospect. There was no way she was going to let him run off to DC without her, with her best friend kidnapped by a serial killer. He respected her for that, but right now, he didn't want to deal with the drama. There was no way Fornell would add another horrendous protocol violation onto the case.

"I think you know the answer to that, boss," she replied, sliding into the driver's seat and sticking the key in the ignition.

"You're not coming with me," he said as she pulled away from the curb, leaving no room for argument. She glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "I mean it."

"Tim," she said, and he was surprised to hear her say his first name. "You're not the only one who's in danger of losing someone they love. If Scottie's in trouble, I'm going to DC. Just thought it would be easier if I went with you instead on your priority flight. It'll save me gas money. The economy's in bad shape, you know."

"I hate how you do that," McGee sighed, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. "You don't even leave me any room to argue." It was true. If Kara thought she was in the right, there was nothing stopping her. If she had been employed under anyone else, she would've been viewed as an insubordinate. She preferred the term 'free spirit'.

He preferred the term 'aggravating as all hell'.

"Good. Then it's settled. We'll tell the guys at the gate that there was a mistake and two agents are heading to DC, not just one."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I miss the part where we settled something?" McGee asked with an air of complete exasperation.

"You've got to keep up, boss." Instead of responding, he landed a slap on the back of her head. "Ouch, what the hell! No head-slapping the driver!"

"Has it occurred to you that maybe this is something I need to do alone?" he asked her. "That maybe I don't want this to be a tag team effort?"

"Alone?" Kara echoed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you working with your old team on this case? Your old team as in legendary NCIS director Anthony D. DiNozzo Junior and Ziva David, ex-member of Mossad's Quidon unit and NCIS, not to mention the only living child of late Mossad Director Eli David?"

"You've done your research," McGee observed with a frown. "I don't remember ever mentioning Tony and Ziva to you."

"But you did mention Gibbs," Kara reminded him. "A little Google search here, a few words with my friends over in DC... you find out a few things." She paused, smirking slightly. "You guys are _the_ team. That Somalia operation, that was _you_! You were the ones who took out Ari Haswari, Paloma Reynosa and Alejandro Riviera, P2P, Harper Dearing, Ilan Bodnar... you're like superheroes, as federal agents go."

"Were," he corrected in a monotone. "We were a team."

"Why did you never tell us? You mentioned Gibbs a few times in passing, then your friend Abby, but you never breathed a word about Agents DiNozzo or David. Why? What happened with your old team?"

"When did this conversation end up being about my past?" McGee asked in a tight voice. He didn't want to talk about this. Hell, right now he didn't really want to talk about anything to anyone, period. He hadn't shared much of his past with his current team for a reason. Some wounds were still fresh, fresher than they should've been for how much time had passed. "Aren't you supposed to continue telling me what to do, in spite of the fact that I'm your superior?"

"Oh God... you're not going to pull rank on me, are you?" she whined petulantly. He was reminded once more of Tony.

"If it would work, I would," he muttered before leaning his head back against the seat, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. "Alright, fine. I will let you come along on three conditions."

"Just keep in mind, I'm driving the car. I'm not afraid to kill us." He recognized it as a joke. Kara's sense of humor was a little off, sometimes.

"Condition one," he held up a finger. "You keep your head down once we're in DC. You're staying out of the field, got it?"

Kara groaned loudly, but reluctantly nodded her head. "Fine, next."

Two fingers. "Condition two: once we get to DC, you will not drill my former coworkers about me, or the team, or anything that happened when I was with NCIS."

"Can I drill you about all of that?"

"Isles," he said, his tone stern.

"Alright, alright. Number three?"

"No talking until we get to the airport," he said. Kara did the motion of sealing her mouth and tossing the key, and he almost, almost smiled. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself and prepare for what was to come.

* * *

Tony sat side by side with Ziva in the car, waiting for McGee to come out of the airport terminal. He couldn't deny, he felt a thrill of both fear and anticipation in the pit of his stomach. It had been so goddamn long. Four years, in the scheme of things, wasn't an enormous amount of time, but to go four years without seeing what he could only classify as his best friend made the span of time seem indeterminable.

He and Ziva had been mostly silent. When they had argued over who would drive the cruiser to the airport when they left NCIS, the nostalgia had nearly knocked him on his ass. It could've been a decade ago. He thought of letting her drive, just for old time's sake, but he figured that they should really try and save McGee's girlfriend before they risked their lives like that.

"I wonder what he will look like," Ziva said, breaking the silence that had taken over the cruiser. "He would be about forty four now, wouldn't he?"

"Yeah, roughly. Wonder if he's gone grey yet."

"He's in his early forties, he would not be grey already," Ziva reasoned.

"I met Gibbs when he was forty two, and he was ninety percent grey. There's no age limit on being a silver fox."

He was interrupted from their conversation by the sound of rapping on the window. He turned to see a man hunched over the window, hand poised to knock on the driver's side window once more. He quickly rolled it down, and the man leaned his head in.

"...hey guys," he said, seeming unsure of how to greet them, as they were both staring at him. A woman was standing behind him, one he didn't recognize. "Uh..."

"You..." Tony trailed off, meeting the wide green eyes that he hadn't realized until then how much he had missed. "You have _facial hair_."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_A/N: I blame Supernatural for the long update gap... it's all the Winchesters' fault. Oh, and I'm now morbidly depressed. Cote's leaving and I. Just. Can't. Deal. This is AU now, obviously. No more Ziver... no more ninja... no more misconstrued idioms... no more Tiva... yeah, I'll be over here, crying in my corner. Enjoy the new chapter, folks._

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

_**"I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon,**_

_**After all I knew it had to be something to do with you,**_

_**I really don't mind what happens now and then,**_

_**As long as you'll be my friend at the end." -Three Doors Down, Kryptonite**_

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 16:30 - Parking Lot, JFK Airport, Washington, DC_

He looked the same, really. Short brown hair that was neatly kept. Pale. Skinny, though he definitely had more muscle mass now. The goatee was what threw him the most, really. He never imagined his Probie with facial hair. Other than that, he still dressed like the secretly filthy rich crime novelist that he was. He hadn't thought about Deep Six in a long time - he briefly wondered if McGee was still writing about LJ Tibbs, Agents Tommy, Lisa, and McGregor, or if he had moved on.

He sat there, staring blankly at his old friend for a long moment before he realized that he should probably say something other than his stunned observation about his facial hair. It had been four years, after all. "It's... good to see you, McGee. Wish it was under different circumstances, though."

McGee frowned in response, eyes never leaving his. "Yeah. Same here on both points." The other man's eyes darkened, and a moment of silence passed before he gestured for the woman standing behind him to come forward. She leaned her head down so she was level with him, and he had to admit, she was pretty. Curly auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a slim but athletic build. "This is Special Agent Kara Isles. She's a member of my team."

"Hello," she said. "I thought I could be of some help with the PRS. I'm a forensic psychologist, so the real bad crazies are kind of my thing."

"The more the merrier," Tony responded before jerking his head towards the back seat. "Get in. Daylight's wasting." McGee nodded his head and ducked into the back of the cruiser, Isles following closely behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ziva looking McGee over in the rearview mirror. Through the reflection, McGee's eyes met hers, and the two of them stared at each other for a long moment, emotion clear on both of their faces.

McGee and Ziva had always shared a devoted friendship, ever since she first started working as a liaison with NCIS back in '06. He had been the first one, besides Ducky, to really and truly accept Ziva into the fold. Hell, that's how he knew that Ziva was in trouble after Gibbs had left her in Israel - she hadn't contacted McGee since she had rejoined Mossad.

What had surprised him so thoroughly was that this time, Ziva broke off contact with even him. That's what had made her departure seem even more final than the last time, because she had broken off ties with the man who was like a brother to her. He had been too wrapped up in himself to notice it at the time, but McGee had been put through just as much as he had when Ziva left. He had felt the same sting of abandonment as he had. Did Tony try to help him? No, he just shut him out, leaving him to suffer alone.

What a wonderful trip down memory lane, this was. He started up the car, pulling away from the curb once McGee and Isles were secured in their seatbelts. Tony glanced back at his former teammate. "So, this is your lead, McGee. What's our first step?" He knew that if he was in McGee's shoes, he would want complete control of the situation until his fiancée was found, and Tony planned on giving it to him. He owed him that much, at least.

McGee removed his iPhone, tapping on the screen. "We need to check all of the rental car companies near the airport. There's three of them, one about half a mile from here, one two miles down the interstate, and a third one three miles down. Scottie was recorded arriving from her flight at 0600 this morning, and she must have picked up a rental car, because there's no record of her in any of the cabs in DC."

Five years prior, after a taxi driver who had also been a serial killer had racked up a string of eighteen victims before finally being caught, it had been mandated that cameras be put in every cab in the city. McGee had worked the investigation when he had still been in DC. He had already had Tammy cross-check Scottie's photo with all of the outgoing cabs from JFK during the time frame that Scottie would have been arriving.

"Okay. We'll start with Car Quick, it's the closest," Tony said. "You had any word on Meridian Hill, yet?" McGee nodded in response, mouth dragging down into a frown. McGee had informed him that Scottie's cell location had been triangulated to the large park, and that he currently had FBI agents searching the premises.

"They found her cell," he said. "Her last two calls were from me, but one of them _wasn't_ from me. They got the voice recording - it was me talking, and it had been sent from my phone, but it wasn't actually me. The kidnapper must have fabricated my voice using some kind of advanced audio manipulation software. I had one of my agents look into the call, and the signal had been altered so that it would appear on caller ID as my cell, but he back-traced it, and it didn't lead to my phone. The closest he managed to get was the main tower in DC, beyond that it was too encrypted to get a locale."

"This means that the PRS is well-versed in technology," Ziva observed. "And that makes him dangerous."

"Well, we've got McGeek with us now," Tony said as Car Quick came into sight. "So he's not the only one who has tech skills on his side."

He saw McGee smile faintly in the rearview mirror. "All I can hope is that I'm better than he is. If I've got time later, I'm going to try and crack the encryption code myself, but if this guy has any sense, he's using a burn phone."

"What did the call say?" Ziva asked. "The one that was the fake version of your voice?"

"I downloaded it," McGee responded, placing his phone on the console between the driver and passenger seat. A moment later, McGee's voice crackled over the speaker, panicked and afraid.

"Scottie! Scottie, it's me!"

Then, a female voice: "Tim? What is it, what's wrong?"

"I need help, I'm in DC, you've got to help me, he's got me-"

"Tim, slow down, who-"

"Oh God, he's coming back! Meridian Hill Park, in DC! You can't call the police, don't contact anyone at the field office, and whatever you do, don't call me back. He's got friends in high places, if he knows that you know I'm gone, he'll kill me, and then he'll kill you. Just come to me, please!"

"Tim, what-" there was a click, and Scottie was left screaming at nothing. Tony pursed his lips in concern as he pulled into the parking lot of the rental outfit.

"She thought that was me. He lured her here, thinking that I was going to die if she didn't come," McGee said. "She should've called someone, why didn't she call someone?"

"When someone you care about it is in danger, reason tends to get thrown to the breeze," Ziva offered as Tony turned off the car.

The sleek black cruiser that held their protection detail pulled into the parking spot next to them, the burly agents within looking stoic. The FBI and NCIS still weren't on wonderful terms, and the three agents assigned to protect them at all times on rotating shifts didn't seem terribly pleased with their tasks. It wouldn't be any skin off of their noses if he and Ziva bit the dust. Now that McGee and Isles were with them, however, they would probably be much more willing to watch their backs.

"Thrown to the wind," McGee and Tony corrected simultaneously. Isles looked back and forth between the two of them as they exited the car.

"Does she do that often?" Tony heard Isles whisper to McGee.

"Idioms aren't her strong suit," McGee explained as the four of them made their way through the glass doors and into the reception area of Car Quick. Arriving at the desk, they all fished out their IDs. A young man with slicked back black hair stood at the counter, typing away on his computer, completely oblivious to their presence. Tony cleared his throat loudly, catching the man's attention. His nickname read 'Nick'.

"Can I help you?" he asked, looking thoroughly disinterested. Tony flashed his ID, as did his three compatriots. The man's eyes widened. "What can I do for you, Agent-" he squinted at Tony's idea. "Err, Director DiNozzo?"

"We need the records of every car rented from here in the past twenty four hours, printed out and in our hands in the next five minutes, preferably."

The clerk's face hardened. "Do you have a warrant, sir?"

Tony and Ziva looked at each other. They'd both been out of the field for far too long. "You guys didn't get a warrant?" Isles asked in a whisper from behind them.

"This information is critical to our investigation," Ziva tried, leaning on the counter and giving Nick a serious look. "We require it now, and we do not have time to get a warrant. We would appreciate it if you would cooperate with us on this."

"I'm sorry, but I can't give out the information of the renters. In the agreement it's stated that their personal information will remain confidential, unless in the event of a _warranted_ police investigation," he said, emphasizing the word. Before Tony could come up with a decent threat to throw at the man, McGee stepped forward, reaching into his wallet. He pulled out a picture of a woman with sable brown hair that rested on her shoulders, and soft, pale blue eyes. Scottie.

"Please," McGee said, voice low and sincere. "We're looking for this woman. Have you seen her? Did she rent a car from here?" The clerk still looked dubious, but Tony could tell from the look in his eyes that he recognized the woman. "Please. She's my fiancée. I'm just trying to find her." Tony suppressed the overwhelming urge to embrace his friend. McGee wasn't trying to get pity so he could get information, he was just being honest. He was desperate to find his girl.

"2019 White Honda Blaze. She rented it out around six o'clock yesterday for a forty-eight hour deal. She signed her name as Scottie Corrigan, paid with cash," he divulged, looking somewhat reluctant.

"Can we get a license plate number?" Tony asked, pulling a notebook out of his pocket, along with a pen.

"GFA-6700," he recited, and Tony scrawled it down.

"Thank you," McGee said, and Tony could tell that he meant it. Having what they needed, the four of them headed back outside. Tony and McGee were both on their cells before they even reach their cruiser. Tony had Agent Feller send out a BOLO with the description of Scottie's rental car, and he could hear McGee doing the same with one of the agents at the FBI's DC field office.

After they were finished, they were back on the road, their protection detail tailing them as they headed towards the Naval Yard. "So, what is the next step once we are back at NCIS?" Ziva asked, breaking the silence that had swallowed the car for the past several minutes.

"Agent Isles will get started on her psychological profile of the Strangler," McGee began, nodding towards his agent. "And I'll start working on the geographic profile. It wouldn't hurt if you got one of your agents started on a linkage analysis. Also, I'll send your forensic scientist - Tammy, right? - I'll send her the recording of my fake phone call to Scottie, see if she can pull anything off of it."

"Geographic profile?" Tony echoed. "You getting into the whole geospatial investigation craze, McGee?"

"Well, I have a Masters degree in environmental criminology, so I would certainly hope so," McGee answered dryly. Tony threw him an odd look.

"Another degree?" Tony shook his head. "I've missed out on a lot, haven't I?"

McGee was quiet for a long moment before responding. "Yeah... yeah, I guess you did. Both of you," he added, and Ziva pursed her lips pensively in response. McGee's agent looked like she was about to explode with questions, but Tony had a feeling that she had been forbidden to pry into the eight million tons of baggage between the three of them before McGee agreed to bring her along.

A short time later, they were parked back at NCIS, and the four of them were in the elevator, heading up to the bullpen. McGee had been looking around with the same kind of nostalgic wonder that Ziva had earlier, and he had smiled softly at the oddest things - the vending machines on the ground floor, which still held Nutter Butters, the emergency stop on the elevator - just little things that only had relevance to the three of them.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the bullpen, which was no longer painted in its bright orange glory, but was now more of a navy color. That had been one of Tony's first decisions as director. A new paint job had definitely been in order so his agents could work in a room that wasn't colored like tangerine throw-up.

McGee seemed surprised by the change as he stepped out, but he was even more surprised by the blur that tackled him into the floor with a loud 'oomph!'.

"Huh," Tony observed with an arched eyebrow. "I guess Tammy called Abby."

"Abby?" McGee managed from underneath the former forensic scientist, who was still hugging him tightly around the neck. Tony bent down to help peel Abby away from McGee, who was hugging her back, but definitely seemed flustered by her sudden appearance.

"Come on, Abs, you're killing him," Tony said carefully as he finally got Abby off of McGee. He could see that her eyes were shining with tears. Isles helped McGee up ("I'm guessing that's Abby, then?") and Ziva stood off to the side, staring wide-eyed at Abby as she hugged Tony as well.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" she asked by his ear, arms wrapped around him. He let himself have a small smile. It felt good to be hugged. It had been a long, long time. It was hard to believe that this used to be a daily occurrence.

"There's kind of been a lot on all of our plates, Abby. This was supposed to stay within the agency," he said.

"Screw the agency!" she pulled back. "If this bastard's after you and Tim, I'm going to help stop him."

"I know you want to, but this is a complete multi-agency clusterfuck already. We'll be fine. Really."

"Uh-uh. I'm working on this. I'll keep it unofficial, but I'll be down in the lab with Tammy when I don't have classes until this is over." She pulled back from Tony, and he could tell that McGee and Isles had also noticed that Abby hadn't yet addressed Ziva. She turned slowly from Tony to face the ex-Mossad officer.

They stared at each other for a long moment. The tension in their small group could have been sliced with a butter knife. Ziva attempted to speak first.

"Abby, I-"

"We need to talk. Now," Abby said, grabbing her arm roughly and dragging her towards the women's restroom. Ziva didn't attempt to resist, and Tony had a feeling that she had seen this coming. A moment later, the bathroom door shut behind the two of them, and Tony was left with McGee and Isles.

"Well," Isles said awkwardly. "Can I uh, get a desk? So I can start my profile?"

"Huh?" Tony asked, distracted by what Abby and Ziva could be talking about. "Oh, right. Yeah. Rockwell!" he shouted the MCRT head's name, and Rockwell's large head appeared from where his desk was located.

"Yes, sir?"

"Show Agent McGee and Agent Isles to somewhere they can set up shop, and if McGee gives you an order, you do as he says, got it?" he told him, and Rockwell nodded.

"Of course. Agents, this way," he said, and Isles made her way over to him. McGee glanced back at Tony before following her.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing? Don't." He arched an eyebrow at McGee in response. "There was a reason Ziva and I used to call you DiNosey. Some things don't change, Tony."

"Things have changed a lot since you left, Tim," Tony replied quietly. "Whatever they're saying to each other, it's between them."

"Uh-huh," McGee said, and the disbelief was written all over his face as he tailed after Isles and Rockwell and into the MCRT section's of the bullpen.

_Please, _Tony thought with a snort. _Like I'm so immature that I would go and listen at the door, trying to catch what they're saying..._

A young female probationary agent he recognized passed by, and he held out an arm to stop her. "Agent James," he greeted her warmly. She smiled at him tentatively.

"Director."

"I have an important task for you."

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'd like you to go into the bathroom and find out what the two women in there are saying to each other. This is of the utmost importance. It's a matter of national security," he told her.

"In the bathroom, sir?"

"Yes. In the bathroom."

"Uh..." she looked at him wide-eyed. "Of course. I'll go and do so right now, sir."

"Thank you, Agent James. Report back to me when you're done."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_A/N: As usual, thank you all for the feedback. I'm hugging you all in my mind. Also, there's a lot of jargon in this chapter, just a warning. I'd also like to mention that the Patrick Bowers Files by Steven James were a huge inspiration for this fic and the PRS is a nod to one of his killers._

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS._

* * *

**_"You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness,_**

**_Like resignation to the end, always the end,_**

**_So when we found that we could not make sense,_**

**_Well, you said that we would still be friends." -Gotye, Somebody That I Used to Know_**

* * *

_April 2nd, 2023, 17:30 - NCIS Bullpen, Naval Yard, Washington, DC_

Abby shut the door hard behind her before turning to face Ziva, expression serious. She could feel the anger radiating off of her, and she had to admit, an upset Abby was not something she wanted to deal with right now. However, she knew that she owed her this conversation. She owed it to all of them for leaving.

Abby looked different than she remembered. Her thick black hair was bound back in a braid that reached her mid back. She had a white long sleeve shirt with a black Brain Matter t-shirt over the top, with simply dark blue jeans to finish of the outfit. She was surprised to see that she was just wearing black tennis shoes instead of platforms. The Goth makeup was also gone. She was dressed fairly normal, and it was _odd_.

"All I want to know is why," she said, taking a step forward, looking down at her, large green eyes still just as she remembered.

"Abby..."

"You left when all of us needed you the most. After you left, everything fell apart. _Everything_," she emphasized, wringing her hands with anxiety. "Why? What the hell happened that drove you away? That made you leave us a note and an empty apartment and then disappear for _eight years_?"

She sighed, leaning back against the sink. She knew that her reason wouldn't make sense. She knew it wouldn't be enough, but it was all that she had. She supposed she owed Abby an explanation, no matter how weak it truly was. She only wished that she could bring herself to tell Abby what had transpired between her and Tony, but if he himself had not chosen to tell them, she wouldn't violate his privacy.

"Everyone that I love dies," she whispered. "And I lose more of myself every time. After Gibbs... I did not think that I could stand to lose anymore. Next time, there wouldn't be any of me left." She paused, taking in a shaky breath as a woman she didn't recognize came into the bathroom, gave them an awkward smile, and went into one of the stalls. She lowered her voice as she continued. "I was a coward. I ran away, because I was afraid that everyone I cared about, I would eventually lose. You. Tony. McGee. Jimmy. When I came back, I didn't even intend to run into Tony, but now that I have... it's made me realize that what I did was selfish. I could not help it, though. Physical pain is something I know how to deal with. Emotional pain is not."

"And in eight years, it never occurred to you to call any of us? To let us know you were still alive?" she demanded.

"If I had called, if I had stayed in contact, I would have come back. I would not have been able to stay away. I had to break off all communication, permanently. It was the only way for me to move on from this part of my life-" she knew that she was rambling, but damn it, she just wanted Abby to understand. The former forensic scientist cut her off before she could finish.

"WE WERE YOUR FAMILY!" she shouted. "When you had the FBI, NCIS, and Mossad on your tail and you were wanted for murder, who saved you? We did. When you were dying in Somalia, who came for you? We did. When your father died, who fought to get revenge for you? We did. We were always there for you! No matter what happened, we always stood by you!"

"I... I know that..."

"No, you obviously don't!" She could tell that Abby was trying hard to keep her voice down, but was having quite a bit of trouble. "We needed you. The only way that we were going to make it through Gibbs' death was if we stuck together. What did he always tell us? He told us to look out for each other. Rule #15: Always work as a team. But once you left..." she shook her head, and she lifted her hands to cover her face, and she saw a silent sob rack Abby's body. "You've been around Tony. You see what he is now. Sometimes, I barely can tell that it's him anymore."

"He's grown up, he's matured, it would have happened whether I was here or not," Ziva insisted, half trying to convince herself and half trying to convince Abby.

Abby looked at her with something akin to disappointment. "You've got to stop lying to yourself, Ziva." There was a thick silence between them following that statement. Ziva noticed that the woman who had come into the bathroom earlier was still there, and she had heard no signs that she was actually using the bathroom. Ziva caught Abby's eye again and jerked her head towards the stall.

"_I think she is listening in_," she signed to Abby, slowly, since her sign language was rusty after so many years of disuse.

"_What reason, though? We don't even know her_."

"_Just nosey?"_

"_Or maybe she's working for someone else who is nosey?"_

"Tony," they both said out loud at the same time, followed by an eye roll from the both of them. "He has not changed that much, yes?" Ziva asked rhetorically before stepping forward and kicking open the door to the woman's stall, sending the door flying into the wall of the stall with a loud slam. The woman was indeed sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, looking up at the two of them with wide, scared eyes.

"I'm sorry! Director DiNozzo said it was a matter of national security!" She paled visibly when Ziva went for the knife at her hip, but Abby put out a hand to stop her.

"Don't," Abby said, before turning back to the woman. "What's your name?"

"Agent J-James," she managed. She was young, probably only twenty-two or twenty-three. The same age she had been when she had first joined NCIS as a Mossad liaison.

"What did Director DiNozzo tell you to do?" Abby asked.

"He told me to listen to your conversation and report back to him," she informed them, evidently much more scared of them at the moment than Tony. With Ziva's hand being on a Bowie knife and Abby being almost six feet tall, she could understand the woman's trepidation.

"Then you will do just that," Ziva decided. "Only, you're going to tell DiNozzo that we told each other how much we missed each other, and then hugged it out. And _nothing more_, is that clear?"

Agent James nodded obediently before scrambling off of the toilet seat and promptly bolting out of the bathroom.

"Typical," Ziva said. "I missed typical, a little." She turned to Abby. "I did miss you, Abby. Everyday."

Abby's lips trembled for a moment before she lunged forward and dragged Ziva into a tight hug.

_Abby looked at her, unsure of something, before tackling her with the first hug she had ever received from her. Ziva was very surprised. She didn't hug her back, but she allowed herself to be hugged. Abby pulled back. "What was that for?" Ziva asked._

_"I'm glad you're not dead."_

Ziva hugged her back tightly, letting her chin rest on Abby's shoulder. The two of them stood like that for a long time, and Ziva was reminded of when she had come back from Somalia. She had barely let anyone touch her after her ordeal there, reacting very negatively to physical touch, but when Abby had hugged her when she had entered the bullpen for the first time after her imprisonment and subsequent torture, she had been amazed at how much better it had made her feel.

Abby's hugs still made her feel better.

Finally, they released each other, and there was a watery smile on Abby's face. "Come on. Let's go find this bastard. If we're having a reunion, we better do something good with it."

Ziva nodded. "We will find him. I will not let him get away so easily, not after the things I have seen him do."

* * *

"So... that's it?" Tony asked, somewhat suspiciously. Agent James nodded.

"Yes sir. They were hugging when I left. I thought it would seem odd if I stayed any longer."

"Hmph. Well, thank you for your assistance, Agent James. You can get back to work now." Agent James scurried away, leaving himself and McGee alone in the conference room. McGee was over by the plasma screen, which was currently connected to his laptop, which he had been on for the past fifteen minutes. Tony came back over to him, and McGee looked up briefly

"What was that about?" McGee asked.

"Nothing," he answered evasively, not wanting to prove McGee right. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"I told you, I'm setting up the geographic profile."

"Yeah, I got that. So, environmental criminology, that's your thing now?"

"Yes," McGee answered. "I study the relationship that the victims and the killer have to their environment, melding together the fields of environmental psychology with geospatial investigation."

"Fancy." Tony took a seat at the conference table. "And how exactly will this help us?"

"Tony, time and place are everything. Why that time, why that place? Why that victim? Locations have use patterns. If you look at the sites associated with each crime and the time of day that the crime occurred, it gives you a glimpse into the world of the offender. People typically carry out their routine activities in the most convenient location. Just like normal people, killers tend to move in repetitive patterns and directions from their place of residence. For now, we'll just focus on the original murders." McGee clicked a button on his laptop, bringing up a 3-D map of Annapolis on the screen.

"Okay..." Tony said, looking at the perfect representation of Annapolis.

"Every murder has at least four scenes; the place of the initial encounter between the offender and the victim, the site of the attack or abduction, the site that the murder took place, and then finally where the body was dumped."

"McGee, what thingamajig are you using to do this? Is that a live satellite feed?"

"This," McGee said, tapping the screen of his laptop. "is called the Observing Aerial Surveillance and Inspection System, otherwise known as O.A.S.I.S. It's a cooperative venture between the NSA and the FBI, with a little help from NASA as well. It's basically Google Earth on steroids - live satellite feed world wide. Very useful."

Tony frowned. NCIS didn't have anything like that. Why did they still have to be at the bottom of federal agency totem pole?

"Alright, look at this," McGee said, tapping several keys on his computer. New layers overlaid on top of the previous ones, each layer with an array of circles, diamonds, and triangles. "This first map shows where we found each of the bodies," McGee explained. "The next one here-" he clicked again and the diamonds appeared. "-has the residences of the victims. If we know the abduction sites, I've made those appear as ovals." Once again he clicked. Another layer appeared. "And when the murder site has been identified, you'll see those in yellow diamonds."

"This is all really pretty and everything McGee, but can we get to the point?"

"Hold on, alright? I'm getting there. Look what happens when I overlay the roads, emphasizing the routes that provide the quickest and easiest getaway and then compare that to the distribution of homes in the residential area and we're looking at..." a series of glowing lines threaded together, connecting the clutter of symbols and figures. "Then, if we impose what we know about the victims' life patterns and travel routes at the time they were abducted, along with observable offender patterns, urban zoning, population distribution, topographic features-"

"I'm beginning to think you can't help yourself. Chase. Cut to it." He did his best to sound annoyed, but hearing McGee's geek speak again was almost comforting after its long absence.

McGee rolled his eyes before continuing. "I'm trying to find the anchor point. The offender's home base, most likely his house, where he works, or a relative's place. Offenders tend not to commit crimes too close to their home base, or too far away from it. Once we've defined his hunting area and draw a line connecting the two farthest crime scenes, we created the radius of a circle. Within this circle here, there is a fifty percent chance that the PRS has his anchor point."

"Here-" McGee pressed a button and illuminated two regions of the map. "-are the optimal search areas, the most likely anchor points for our offender. This area just west of Annapolis, and this region of city blocks downtown. It cuts out eighty-five percent of the search area. Also, I looked up how many suspects there are so far - 3,511 names on Annapolis PD's master list. I checked, and only thirteen percent of them live or work in this region." McGee looked up at Tony from the computer. "So, this gives us a place to start."

"We can use this to reprioritize the tip list," Tony said. "Not to mention the fact that it narrows down the suspect pool a hell of a lot more. This is actually kind of impressive, McGenius."

"The next step is narrowing down the suspect pool further. Have the MCRT comb through the list to see if any of the thirteen percent have a history of violent crimes, assaults, rape, etcetera. The crimes aren't of a sexual nature, but they're still all women, and that could point to a fixation on the opposite sex," McGee suggested. Tony leaned back on the conference table, crossing his arms as he thought of what to do next.

"Chess clubs, chess conventions, chess magazines," he rattled off. "This guy's obviously into chess. The pieces we've found at the scenes so far have been generic, but they've also got some kind of extra meaning for the guy. Especially with the 'reaching across the board and taking the pieces' metaphor that Ziva figured out. I'll have them cross-check the list, see if any of the thirteen percent are chess fanatics."

"That's a good idea," McGee agreed. Before Tony could say anymore, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, brow furrowing in confusion when he saw that the number was masked.

"Who is this?" he asked as he picked up the phone. For a moment, there was only heavy breathing on the other end.

"Anthony DiNozzo." Whoever was on the other end was using voice distortion software. He couldn't even tell if the voice was male or female. Confused, he put the phone on speaker and laid it down on the table, motioning for McGee to come over. _This can't be who I think it is... _"Director Anthony D. DiNozzo Junior of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"Who is this?"

"Oh, I think you know exactly who I am, Director." McGee's eyes widened, and he looked at Tony with urgency. Tony mouthed 'trace it' to him, and McGee immediately returned to his laptop. Tony took the phone off of speaker, putting it back to his ear.

"The Pink Ribbon Strangler, I presume?"

"What a poor name the media chose for me. Personally, I prefer Machiavelli," the voice said.

"Machiavelli? The ends justifies the means, right?" Tony said, trying to stall as long as he could so McGee could fully trace the call. McGee mouthed 'thirty seconds' to him. Thirty seconds with a crazed serial killer? He could do that.

"Yes... I've always admired his philosophy. I just thought I should call and tell you that the game has changed."

"This isn't a game."

"Oh, but it is. For me, at least. The game changed when I realized just who Ms. David was... former NCIS agent... former Mossad. Yes. It's changed. She's been moved down the list, and Ms. Corrigan has been moved up. She's with me now, actually."

"I'm going to find you," Tony promised him in a deadly whisper. "And I'm going to make you pay for what you did to all of those women. For what you did to Scottie."

"Just like your mentor, aren't you?" the disguised voice laughed quietly. "I'm afraid you can't have her, Director DiNozzo. I saw her first." The words were said with some finality, and Tony was worried that he was about to hang up.

"Wait, don't-"

Click.

The line went dead.


End file.
